


are we okay

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 41,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly three years of marriage (and less than a month in total spent in each other's company), Grant and Jemma find themselves assigned to the same field team. It's not quite marital bliss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pilot

**Author's Note:**

> Rather than try to rewrite the whole season, this is a series of drabbles, one (or more) corresponding to each episode.
> 
>  
> 
> The lack of rating or warnings are, for the moment, simply because I'm writing this as I rewatch. Who knows what sort of content the future holds for these two lovebirds.

Jemma’s first thought when she wakes to find a strange duffel just inside the door of her temporary quarters, is that there’s been some miscommunication as to her departure time and the room’s been reassigned early. Her second, when the intruder comes out of the bathroom, is that there hasn’t been.

“Grant,” she says. It’s a pleasant surprise (she hasn’t seen her husband in months) but the timing is highly suspect.

“Did I wake you?” he asks. He’s wearing only a towel and his skin is shining from the steam. It’s distracting, but not nearly enough that she doesn’t notice the fresh cut on his cheek.

“You’re hurt.” It’s not bad, not nearly the worst of the injuries he’s ever suffered, but he has a habit of avoiding her when they’re still new. If he’s here now, there must be a reason, and she’s almost certain what it is. “You’re here to talk me out of joining a field team!”

He rolls his eyes and grabs his bag from the floor. “I  _should_. You barely moved when I came in.”

“As if I have anything to fear from  _you_.”

His mouth twists in an odd sort of way that means he’s torn between amusement and annoyance. She knows very well how dangerous he is, he’s a specialist after all, but he’s also her husband and she’s never feared him turning all that lethal skill in her direction. Which says a lot about Grant, given that neither of them entered into this relationship entirely willingly.

“If you’re not here to dissuade me,” she asks, “why  _are_ you here?”

His expression turns to genuine amusement now. “I’m going with you.”

It takes a great deal to have her struggling to catch a thought, but Grant has always had a keen talent for it. “You’re  _what_? Grant! You cannot follow me into the field like some overbearing mother hen!”

He smiles down at her, completely unbothered by her anger. “I’ve been  _ordered_  onto your team.”

That’s a surprise. Couples are discouraged on field teams.  _Married_  couples are forbidden. If both she and Grant are on the same team, it would have required a great deal of pull on their commanding officer’s part.

“Oh.” 

He cups her elbows, pulling her close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating off him. His thumbs draw circles over her skin (she wonders if he realizes he’s doing it at all). She looks up into his face and again notices the angry cut. He won’t be able to hide his injuries from her anymore, will be required not to, in fact, as she’s going to be acting as team medic. And -  _oh_  - they’ll be living together. They haven’t actually done much of that. This will be interesting.

“Are we okay?” he asks.

She smiles at the familiar question. This being an arranged marriage, awkward tends to be their baseline (the conversation thus far has been refreshingly light), and they fell into the habit of asking each other if things were okay early on. 

In this case, however, there can really only be one answer. They’ve both been ordered onto this team. If they were wanted so badly that their marital status has already been excused, their personal objections won’t make much difference.

“We’ll have to be, won’t we?” She grips his forearms to push herself up and deposit a kiss on his cheek, just beneath the cut. 

“Jem.” He reaches for her, his hand sliding down her arm as she walks away rather than holding her back. 

And she was so excited for this mission last night too. Not that she’s no longer excited, but there’s far more trepidation now than there was before. 

The news that Grant’s joining her isn’t all bad though. She really wasn’t sure how she would ever get to see him once they were both working in the field, but now she’ll see him all the time. It could be a very good change for them.

“It’s too bad,” she sighs, pausing in the bathroom door, “if you hadn’t already showered, you could have joined me.”

His entire body stills and his eyes grow hungry. A thrill travels up her spine. Yes, this could be a  _very_ good change. 

“ _I’ve_  already showered,” he concedes with a slow nod, “but  _you_  might need some help.”

She tilts her head to one side. “Might I?”

“Reaching your back and …” He trails off, his eyes landing on all the places he’d like to help her reach.

“Well, come along then. We’ve a busy day ahead and I so want to be clean for it.” She turns into the bathroom just as Grant reaches for his towel. She hears it hit the floor, but not his swift footsteps just before his arms catch her up. She shrieks, laughing as he helps her undress.


	2. 0-8-4

Grant and Skye are marched downstairs with their hands laced behind their heads. Skye keeps up a stream of chatter along the way, not nearly as worried as she should be about the men with the guns (or maybe she’s just trying to keep her head by putting on a brave face, he can respect that). The spiral staircase means they have to go one by one and the gun kept at the back of his neck ensures he doesn’t try anything. (Not that he would, not when these guys have literally the entire team at gunpoint.)

The spiral staircase  _also_  means Jemma gets a great view of the blood on his shirt on his way down.

“Grant!” She breaks free of her guards to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. He catches her, pulling her into the circle of his arms to protect her from the blow one of the men tries to deliver. It’s not hard, since Jemma’s so small, and he manages to get her behind him, twisting them around so she’s between him and Lola.

He lifts his hands in surrender. “We’re okay,” he says, and then again to drive the point home that no one’s trying anything. He can feel Jemma at his back, clutching his shirt. He hopes he doesn’t imagine that her grip relaxes somewhat at the familiar words.

The man who tried to hit Jemma looks from Grant to her. Grant … does not feel great about men with guns looking at his wife. He also doesn’t feel great about men who’ve tried to hurt her. And, while he doesn’t like Fitz much, Jemma does, so threatening him is out too - at least while Jemma’s watching. Basically Grant wants to kill all of these people. 

But he can’t, not while the others are in danger. So he lets the man drag him roughly away from Jemma and tries not to pay attention to the sounds she makes as someone else drags her after.

This is Grant’s fault, really. He had to go and think that the first mission wasn’t so bad, that he could totally handle serving on a field team with his wife. And now the universe has seen fit to prove him wrong. So,  _so_  very wrong.

They’re tied up right in front of the doors - and Grant can absolutely guess the reason for that - and an unconscious May is brought down to be tied up with them.

“Hey! Watch the hands!” he barks. Which is probably the wrong thing to say to the guy currently tightening Jemma’s knots, but his hands are definitely lingering.

The guy just smirks at Grant and moves on to double-checking Skye. Jemma keeps her eyes on Grant until he finally looks her way again. The look she gives him when he does is more annoyed than frightened. Grant thinks he might let the guy live.

Once their guard has moved back up to his post on the catwalk, Grant opens his mouth to ask how Jemma‘s doing, but she beats him to it. “You’re hurt,” she says, worry coloring her tone.

“It’s just a graze.”

“They  _shot_  at you?” Fitz asks. It’s completely out of character for Fitz to be worried about him, so Grant’s actually kind of relieved when he follows it up with, “Inside the  _Bus_?”

“Oh, he had that before,” Skye chimes in.

Grant leans as far forward as the ropes will allow so he can look around Jemma and Fitz. (The expression Jemma’s wearing is  _not_  a good one.) “ _Why?_ ” he demands of Skye.

“Oh no,” Jemma says, “you do not get to yell at her. You were injured before?”

“It’s a graze. I’m fine.”

Jemma laughs but there’s no humor in it, and having her turn that accusing stare away from him isn’t as freeing as he would’ve thought. 

“I’ve taken care of my own injuries for years,” he reminds her.

“As I am  _well aware_.” That … doesn’t sound good. But he has no idea  _why_  it doesn’t sound good. She’s always known what he does and she’s never had any objections before.

He tries to figure a good way to ask what the hell she’s talking about without sounding like he’s asking quite that, but never gets the chance.

“Could we maybe put a hold on all non-life threatening injuries until after we’re out of this mess?” Skye asks. “By the way,  _how_  are we getting out of this mess?”

The first might be directed at Jemma, but the second is meant for Grant. Unfortunately he doesn’t have any idea. If it was just him, he can see a dozen ways out of this, but he’s got two uncertified agents, an untrained civilian, and an unconscious Calvary to keep alive through this.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Jemma mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, “Probably the blood loss affecting cognitive function.” Which is just such a  _Jemma_  thing to say; he can’t even be as annoyed as he wants to be.

“Okay what is with the two of you?” Skye asks. “Are you, like, secretly brother and sister and nobody told me?”

Grant sighs heavily. He kind of figured, after Skye’s comment about him probably not knowing the difference between Jemma and Fitz, that no one had told her yet, but the sibling thing is almost insulting. They don’t bicker  _that_  badly, do they?

Jemma sputters. “Agent Ward and I- We are not- We-” They are being held  _hostage_. How did the conversation ever get here?

“They’re married,” May says gruffly, and heaves herself up into a sitting position.

Skye gapes, looking between May, Jemma, and Grant repeatedly. Finally her eyes land on Fitz, who shrugs. “Yep,” he says, somehow managing to put all his displeasure with the situation into the word. (And it is a  _lot_  of displeasure. Grant is impressed.)

Grant’s not too happy about the Cavalry being on this team, but he kind of loves her when she says, “Now how are we getting out of this?” There’s no room for subject change in her tone and Grant is spared the rest of this horrible conversation.

At least for a little while.

He’s sure Skye will have questions later, and whatever’s got Jemma so worked up is definitely gonna bite him in the ass down the road. But so long as they’re both alive to have that fight, he’s okay with it.


	3. the asset

It takes hours to sort things out with the authorities in Malta. By the time Grant gets back to the Bus, he’s not surprised to find Fitz passed out on the couch and stinking of beer.

“Go on ahead,” Coulson says, sounding as tired as Grant feels. He puts Fitz’s legs up onto the couch himself and lays a blanket over him. Grant’s not really worried about Fitz, but if Coulson thinks he might be, that means his cover’s holding.

He follows the order and heads for the bunks. Jemma’s is wide open but she’s not inside, so he’s not all that surprised to find her curled into a tight ball on his bed. He sighs and closes the door behind him. 

A man she respected and cared for died today. It’s only natural that she’s broken up about it and seeking comfort. He should be glad too, that she’s seeking comfort from  _him_ ; helping his grieving wife through this can only be good for his cover. Only problem is, Grant’s not really sure  _how_. 

They’ve been married for almost three years but, added all up, Grant and Jemma hadn’t even spent a month in each other’s company prior to joining the team. He has  _no idea_  how to help her when she’s hurting.

He strips down to his boxers for bed, his worry over just what to do warring with annoyance that she hasn’t stirred once. He really needs to work on that with her if she’s gonna be in the field.

The bed is only meant for one and her current position makes it impossible for him to get in at all, so he slides in around her, taking a seat against the wall and pulling her into his lap. She reacts immediately, turning into his chest and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“Hey, hey,” he says, soothing a hand along her back. “Go back to sleep.”

Her forehead slides back and forth against his shoulder, a silent refusal. And then she’s kissing his neck.

Truth be told, he’s had a hell of a day too (he kind of needs Coulson alive or this mission is a failure), and he and Jemma have always been good together, physically. When they were still awkward and stilted, trying to find their rhythm as a couple only hours after first laying eyes on each other, the honeymoon was a great ice breaker. It set the tone for their entire relationship, such as it is. Sex - and their mutual agreement to remain faithful, no matter their other circumstances - has been the driving force behind most of their interactions. 

So it’s beyond tempting to let it happen now. It’ll make them both feel better and it’s the one play he’s sure he won’t mess up. But, easy as it would be, he’s pretty sure sex isn’t what Jemma needs right now.

When she moves to straddle him, he uses the slight distance she puts between them to grab her shoulders and hold her back. Not far. Not enough that she'll feel like he’s pushing her away, but enough that she can’t press up against him and distract him.

“Jemma,” he says seriously. Seeing her clearly is like a punch to the gut. There are dried tear tracks down her face, her hair’s a tangled mess, and her expression is … well, if Hall wasn’t dead, Grant’d probably kill him for putting that look on her face.

She paws glumly at his chest, her fingers ghosting over his heart. He swallows down a lump in his throat. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save him,” he says. And he is. Hall was insane, so consumed by his own good intentions that he lost sight of what made them good in the first place, but Jemma cared about him. Grant would’ve liked to have saved him for her.

Jemma’s head moves slowly from side to side, her eyes still fixed on his chest. He worries she might be in shock. She doesn’t smell like alcohol, at least not as much as Fitz did, and he knows for a fact that her tolerance is absurdly high for someone her size, so he doubts this is a drunken stupor she’s in. He runs his hands down her arms, trying to get some warmth back in them. She’s still fully clothed but she’s freezing.

Her gaze lifts to meet his. He watches as her throat works, trying to form words. She’s always so talkative, but this … He hopes Hall is suffering in a particularly horrible circle of hell for what he’s done.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she croaks out finally. Fresh tears shimmer in her eyes. “I mean, I was. If Coulson hadn’t- hadn’t been able to stabilize it, we still would’ve gotten away. May would’ve flown us to safety. But you … you were  _right there_ , Grant.” Her hand slides up around the back of his neck and he lets her curl back into his chest. “All I thought, when you told us that Frank was dead, was that you were alive, and I was so relieved.”

Grant rocks her gently in his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he says after letting her cry into his chest for several minutes. “There’s nothing wrong with caring more about one person than another.”

It does fill him with a wicked sort of pride though, to know that a man she saw regularly for months, who shared her academic passions, rates lower on her emotional scale than he does.

“You don’t think I’m a terrible person?” she sniffs wetly.

He laughs. He can’t help it. Jemma is the least terrible person he’s ever met, and he tells her so. She blushes so badly he has to kiss her. He draws it out, long and slow until his lungs start to complain, and her pleased smile after is well worth his decision to keep things chaste between them tonight.

She eases back on her knees, looking him over with clearer eyes. “You’re not hurt?” They haven’t talked about it yet, but he knows it bothered her that he didn’t come to her with the bullet graze he got in Peru.

“No,” he answers honestly. “Quinn’s security was crap.” His light tone brightens her smile a few watts. 

“Good,” she sighs. She begins climbing off of him. “I’ll just be going then, I guess. I’m sorry I stole your bed, I just…” She pauses, her wide eyes on him but not seeing him. She shakes her head, forcing her smile back in place. “I’ll be going.”

He catches her hand before she can grab the door. “You could stay,” he offers. “There’s-” He glances at what little of the bed is visible just with him sitting on it. “Okay, there’s not enough room, but we’ll make it work.” He runs his thumb along her ring, looking at the way the diamonds shine instead of at her. “You don’t have to be alone.”

Her posture relaxes in his direction. “You’re sure?”

He nods and gives her hand a gentle tug. “Yeah.”

She leaves her clothes on the floor and climbs over him. He turns on his side, his back to the door, with her cocooned between him and the wall.

“Okay?” she murmurs into his chest once she’s settled.

It scares him, how easy he knows it would be to get used to this, to having her in his bed after a tough mission. He pulls her body closer against his and presses his answer into her hair. 

He’s never run from the things that scare him before.


	4. eye spy

“So, now that the angry Ward is gone,” Skye says, using her new nickname for Grant, “can I ask you something?”

Jemma smiles to herself. It’s been nearly two weeks since Skye found out about their marital status; frankly, Jemma’s impressed she lasted this long. Of course, some of that likely has to do with there being no chance of Grant returning anytime soon. He and Coulson will be gone at least an hour (likely several), and there isn’t much to keep the three of them occupied in this tiny van until they check in.

“Anything you’d like,” she says. She can see Fitz out of the corner of her eye, scowling at his laptop. It’s just bad luck that Skye’s chosen to broach the subject while they’re trapped with him.

Skye beams at the permission and pulls a folded piece of notebook paper from her back pocket. It is covered back to front with hastily written text. Apparently, Skye has more than one question.

“How did you meet? Did SHIELD set you up? Is there, like, some agent dating service to keep you from spilling secrets to honeypots? How long have you been married? What was the wedding like? How did he propose? When did he first tell you he loved you?  _Please_  tell me he is secretly a romantic dork. I need this in my life. Seriously.”

That is a  _lot_  of questions - most of which don’t even have answers - and while Jemma is stuck on that unfortunate fact, there’s a deep hollowness making itself known in her gut. She’s never really thought on it before, but neither she nor Grant has ever said “I love you” to the other. It shouldn’t be distressing, given the state of their marriage, but now, faced with Skye’s earnest questions, Jemma feels ashamed of her situation for the first time in a long time.

“Oh!” Skye says, catching sight of something else on her page. “Most importantly,  _why?_  I mean, I get the physical appeal, but that puts him in one night stand territory. Why would you _marry_  him?”

“Yeah, Jemma,” Fitz says, still tapping away at the computer, “why would you?”

She chooses to ignore Fitz’s tone. This, at least, she can answer. “It was arranged,” she says, hoping that if she says it casually enough, Skye won’t press the issue. “Grant is from a political dynasty and my mother’s family has several very profitable business holdings, an alliance seemed reasonable.”

Fitz scoffs. Loudly. Which is actually better than Skye, who is staring at Jemma as though she’s grown a second head.

“Arranged?” she echoes. “You mean, like, 'I have an extra daughter, you have a few extra cows' arranged?”

Though Jemma often felt that way herself growing up, she can’t help her sour expression now. “It was meant to be for our benefit,” she says defensively. “Grant is the second son and my grandfather always felt my mother married beneath herself.”

“So they  _made you_  get  _married_?” Skye demands.

“We were always free to back out,” Jemma says firmly. Though that isn’t entirely true. Jemma always intended on refusing, but when she was fourteen, she had her heart set on one university in particular. Unfortunately, they had just weathered a scandal involving another young prodigy and, while they would accept her gladly, were not about to offer her the free ride other schools would. So Jemma went to her grandfather.

She can still remember how inadequate the weight of her fourteen years felt, standing in that cold, dark office. Perhaps she would have made a different choice, when he made it clear that the money was conditional on her “fulfilling her familial obligations,” but she’d always been the practical sort, always too caught up in her books and studies for silly things like boys, and she’d always known about her fiancé on the other side of the world. It was a simple choice then - between the possibility of some future romance with a man as much a stranger to her as the mysterious Grant Ward and the surety of  _science_  - and she made it with little regret.

Some of her emotions must show on her face, because Skye reaches out to rest a hand on her knee. “Are you … happy?”

It is a serious question and Jemma gives it the consideration it deserves. She remembers waking up in Grant’s arms the morning after Dr. Hall’s death, the way he held her after they took back the Bus from Reyes’ men, the way he smiles at her in the mornings. And, though there aren’t many, she remembers the times before: nights spent making the most of narrow SHIELD cots (or abandoning them entirely), and the surprising gentleness with which he made sure their wedding night wasn’t moving too fast. That’s where their touchstone question came from. It was almost a joke by the next morning with the number of times they lobbed it back and forth.

Skye tilts her head to one side, grinning. “You  _are_! Oh my gosh, you are so cute! You’re totally in love with him!”

Jemma is most definitely  _not_  in love with her husband, but she likes him very much, and is quite happy with how the whole thing’s turned out, so she lets Skye’s comments stand.


	5. girl in the flower dress

It’s not a surprise to hear someone up and unable to sleep after the last mission, and Grant could probably sleep through it - if it were anyone but Jemma. She’s in the kitchen, cooking up a storm from the sounds of it, and he can’t leave his bunk because he can’t face her. It’s laughable. He kills people _for a living_  and he can’t leave this tiny room because he and his wife had their first fight yesterday. 

It was bad, that’s the only word for it. There was no yelling, no raised voices, but he almost wishes there had been. Jemma’s calm rage and the way they both just carried on afterward was so much like his parents that he’s had a knot in his stomach ever since.

Maybe things would be easier if they’d just fought over Skye, who Jemma thinks should be given some slack after her monumental screw up. After all, Coulson’s made his decision. Skye’s staying on. End of story. But it wasn’t  _just_  about her. Somehow - and Grant is still not entirely clear on this - he ended up jumping from Skye’s outsider status and accompanying lack of training to  _Jemma’s_  lack of training.

Privately, he blames the mission. Not the one to rescue Chan, the bigger mission. If he wasn’t so busy toeing the line between husband and agent and double-agent, he wouldn’t have let something slip like that. But he did, and now he has no idea where he and Jemma stand.

It’s not that he doesn’t want her here. Having her around all the time isn’t nearly as bad as he first feared it might be, and she certainly makes ingratiating himself to the team easier. She’s his better half. People naturally like her and he’s part of the package. And he’d be blind not to see the way Coulson (and even sometimes May) smiles at the two of them. 

But the truth is, she really doesn’t have the training. Useful as she may be, she’s also a liability. And while she practically admitted to exactly that before he left to get Coulson and May out of the research lab, it wasn’t the victory Grant might’ve hoped for.

He ordered her to follow him to the weapons locker while he got ready - okay, more like barked her name and expected her to follow along, but  _only_  because there was a criminal listening in - and when she arrived, he was so worried she was going to restart their fight that he preempted her with a kiss. Which she seemed more than happy to return. He used the proximity to untuck her shirt and, before she could push away (they really didn’t have time even for the one kiss), transferred his pistol to the waist of her jeans.

“Just in case,” he said.

“Grant-”

“No,” he cut in, using the harshest tone he could stand with their fight still fresh on his mind. “I may have to leave you alone on the Bus with a known criminal-”

“ _Cyber_  criminal.”

As if that made a difference. “Desperate people can do anything. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna leave you defenseless.” 

“I’m hardly qualified to use a firearm,” she said.

He was already back to buckling his tac vest, so he didn’t get a clear view of her change of expression, but he saw the end result. She looked  _ashamed_. He hated it.

He tried to cheer her up by reminding her that she’s at least more qualified than Fitz (he _makes_ the damn things, you’d think he’d have some idea how to use one) and secured her promise to shoot Lydon if he so much as twitched without permission, and then he was gone. 

Not how he’d have planned their first private conversation after their first fight, which is why he doesn’t want to go out there to face her now - even if she did kiss him back.

He sits up, running his hands furiously through his hair as he does. This is stupid. He should just go out there and talk to her. Calmly. He knows what to say. A heartfelt apology for his comments, some sympathy for Skye, and an offer to teach her some basic defensive skills and he’ll be all set. Only problem is, he does that and he’s playing Jemma like a mark. He doesn’t want to do that.

He’s drawn out of his self-pitying thoughts by the sound of her footsteps in the hall. Maybe he’s lucky enough that she’s going back to sleep. But no, she passes right by her door and stalls outside his. His breath catches in his throat. He’s honestly not sure whether or not he wants her to come inside.

After nearly a minute, she finally moves. He listens until her footsteps trail off down the stairs.

The second he’s sure she’s gone, he’s up and out. He uses the bathroom while he can, and he definitely does  _not_  do a scan of the lounge when he comes out. They’re in midflight over the Pacific. Why would he be checking for threats?

Still, he can’t help but notice what’s out of place in the kitchen. It’s the biggest of the mixing bowls (at least of the safe-for-food ones), and it’s sitting upside-down on the counter. Curious, he approaches it cautiously. There’s a piece of paper taped to the top with only his name written on it in Jemma’s clear, crisp handwriting. He lifts up the bowl, and underneath is - of all things - a cake. Two layers. White frosting with a ring of blue scalloping around the top. And the message: 

CONGRATULATIONS  
ON SURVIVING  
OUR FIRST FIGHT

Grant smiles and uses a finger to steal some frosting before replacing the bowl. To the note he adds a “for” and an “only” around his name, along with a couple underlines. Coulson and May can have some if they want, and Fitz too if it’ll make Jemma happy, but Skye definitely doesn’t get any.

That done, he heads downstairs, suddenly eager to talk to his wife.


	6. fzzt

Jemma can’t quite tear her eyes away from the forceps on the floor. She’s infected. Likely has been since her initial examination of Cross nearly a day and a half ago. That … does not give her much time.

“Sir!” She whirls in place and is surprised to find Coulson still standing just outside the doors. “Sir, I- I need Fitz.” A disease that travels via electrical impulse will require a cure delivered in a similar manner, and for that she’ll need Fitz.

“I’ll wake him,” Coulson says. He’s still wearing that expression, the one so at odds with his usual jovial attitude, making it painfully clear just how dire her situation is. Still, he hesitates, and she’d be a fool not to know why.

She curls her left hand in on itself so that her thumb can touch the bulge of her wedding ring through her glove. “When you tell Grant, would you do it privately? I know that will mean you have to deliver the news twice, but I don’t think he’ll want anyone there.”

“Of course. I’ll send Fitz down.”

And she’s alone. Dying and alone. For a moment - a brief, terrible moment - the reality of her situation rises up around her, threatening to crush her on every side. Her vision goes dark and when it returns, she’s gripping the edge of the table to remain upright and dragging in heaving breaths. She has to get a hold of herself. Fitz can’t see her like this. And Grant…

She pushes herself forcefully away from the table, using the momentum to spur her into the back of the lab. She’ll need her test subjects.

Due to space restrictions, she only keeps three rats on the Bus at a time. That means three chances to test a cure. It will have to be enough.

She focuses on the manual task of bringing the rats out into the lab proper, allowing her mind only enough room to spin out, searching for methods and means to a cure. Once that is done, she checks the tissue samples from the three dead men. They’ll be instrumental in stopping the disease.

Fitz comes then, shooting off the stairs like some wild animal freed from a cage. He holds up a half-formed prototype in one hand.

“It was meant to be a new model taser, but I thought-”

She nods. That should work, with a few modifications. He grins, big and broad, and moves off to grab tools from the trunk of the van.

There are moments like this sometimes - and she’s sure he has them too - in which she realizes how very different their specialties are. He believes this will work, that so long as the mechanics of the delivery are sound, all will come out right. But Jemma can see the disease for what it is, not a stripped screw that must be removed, but a living thing attacking her body from the inside, and one utterly unlike any other her immune system has come up against before. Unlike _any_ human immune system has come up against before this week. Saving her will take a miracle.

Movement on the stairs catches her attention. Grant is dressed head to toe in his customary black and moving so slowly that she nearly didn’t see him at all. His eyes are fixed on her as he approaches the window.

His throat works, searching for words, and his expression breaks. He turns to one side, schooling it carefully into submission before facing her again. “Are-” There’s a crack in his voice, and she knows what he’s trying to ask.

“No,” she says, her own voice dangerously close to a sob.

He opens his mouth again, but closes it as Skye’s voice filters down the stairs.

“It’s all right,” Jemma says softly. It must be bad enough for him having this conversation with Fitz chattering away to himself just a few feet away, but if he has to do it with the rest of the team present, she thinks they might _both_ be in danger of early demise. It’s not funny, not at all, but the thought still puts a bit of a smile on her face when she says, “Go.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she knows he means for his own shortcomings more than the situation.

She presses her hand to the glass. His eyes catch on it for a moment, his face going even more pale, and then he’s gone, pushing bodily past Skye at the foot of the stairs.

Jemma doesn’t listen to Skye’s complaints, nor her dawning realization that something is terribly wrong. With nothing to do until she gets Fitz’s device, and Grant gone, she sits on the floor against the glass. It’s terribly unsanitary, but that’s the least of her worries at the moment.

Her hand curls in on itself again, habit drawing her to the comfort of her wedding ring. That’s what Grant was staring at, she realizes. She must have taken off her gloves simply for something to do, and he saw it pressed against the glass.

She studies it, much as she did the first time she saw it. It’s far more conservative than the gaudy band Grant’s mother picked out from among the family heirlooms. He outright refused to let her wear that one once he found out its origin, and three weeks after the wedding she received this one in a SHIELD-certified package delivered to her lab. She smiles at the memory. He’d remembered to get her another instead of simply going back to his old life and putting the whole mess of their wedding behind him. She thought then that maybe...

Fitz settles down on the other side of the glass directly behind her, and her smile grows. The arrival of the ring was how Fitz found out she was married at all. Three weeks she kept it from him. Despite his anger, she was actually relieved when he finally knew.

A knot forms in her stomach as she thinks of all her silly dreams and hopes for her marriage. She'd actually begun to think, with his teaching Skye, that one day he might settle down at the Academy. And he still might, but she won't be there to see it.

There’s a knock on the glass. Fitz wants her to see his alterations. She lets out a breath, and sends her mournful thoughts with it. She has a cure to find.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Warm water pounds against Grant’s bent neck and down his back, washing away the salt from the ocean. He’s alive. Jemma’s alive. They’re both okay. Everything is fine.

If he reminds himself of it enough, maybe he’ll believe it.

Much as he would’ve liked to stay by her side, he was happy her exhaustion gave him the excuse to shower and get his thoughts together.

She almost died out there. That’s both of them. Her and Garrett. The two people he cares about most in the world, and both nearly died because of SHIELD. No matter how you slice it, this is SHIELD’s fault. SHIELD sent the team to investigate a death they knew nothing about. SHIELD let her into the field unprepared. SHIELD brought the Chitauri and Loki to Earth with their experiments on the Tesseract.

Grant punches the tile. The pain helps pull him out of his thoughts. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been in here; Jemma might be awake. He spins the handles, turning the water off, and grabs a towel. He’s still dripping when he steps out into the medical room they've been stuffed in. As a precaution, he was told, even though neither of them show any signs of infection. Anymore.

Jemma’s still sleeping, but the way the overlarge medical bed dwarfs her cuts through his relief. He looks away from her pale face and lets the steady sound of the heart monitor reassure him as he searches for his clothes. Any other day he’d know just where he left them, but he’s not exactly himself right now.

“Someone took them,” Jemma says. She smiles at him over the blankets. “There was an agent in here while I was sleeping. She took our clothes."

“Our?” Grant echoes, eyeing the blanket as if he'd be able to see her state of dress through it.

She pouts. “Mine were stiff from the salt water. I think she also-” She cuts off to let out an impressive yawn that has him smiling. She returns it sheepishly. “I think she also called Coulson. She was on the phone telling someone we were all right - and seemed very stressed about ensuring they believed her.”

“That sounds like Coulson.” Grant drops the towel and climbs into the bed with her.

She moves over without protest and curls readily into his side when he moves to slip an arm around her. He stares up at the ceiling, waiting for the heart monitor to slow down again, and is proud when it doesn’t quite drop down as low as before.

“HQ is probably giving him the run around after he ignored them,” he says. “They kept calling with orders to … you know.”

She hums in understanding, the sound vibrating into his shoulder. With her on top of his arm, he can’t move it much, but his fingers trail down her hip, over one of her cheeks. She presses closer to him.

He would’ve done it. He realized it hours ago. If it was anyone else on the Bus - anyone but Coulson - he would’ve disobeyed orders and thrown them out without a second thought. He’d have been sorry about it for his cover’s sake, had a few sleepless nights afterward to hit it home with the rest of them that he hadn’t _wanted_ to. Maybe he even would’ve tried to get kicked off the team to prove just how guilty he was.

But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Jemma.

They’ve been married nearly three years and up until recently she was little more than the woman who shared his bed. And that only occasionally. That doesn’t mean her appearance on his very short list of people he gives a damn about is recent. He swore to protect her, to provide for her, and he meant it. They may have been forced into this marriage, but he’d be damned if he let it become just as cold and hateful as his parents’. But these last few months with her - there every day with her smiles and her teasing and her just caring about him - it’s a bit of a shock to realize she’s on that list because of more than just duty.

“Yes,” she says suddenly.

He shoves his thoughts away to look down at her. She’s tipped her head back to see him and her hair is pushed up at on odd angle on one side. It’s just him and Jemma, all alone; he doesn’t bother to hide his smile. “What was that?” he asks.

“You asked - well, you tried to ask - earlier if we were okay.”

His throat tightens just from the memory and he can’t look at her anymore or he’ll remember what it was like to see her locked away - locked away for _his_ protection. She touches his face, gentle soothing strokes of her fingers.

“I’m changing my answer to yes,” she says softly.

He twists beneath her so he can wrap his other arm around her. “Go to sleep,” he says. She snuggles closer and does as he says. He stays awake, not wanting to know what his dreams will bring.


	7. the hub

The dogs run by overhead and Grant holds his breath, praying they go on by. His and Fitz’s scents should be well covered by the water, but that sandwich … _He_ can still smell it in the air. If any of the dogs get curious and detour down here, they’re dead.

But they don’t. They keep going, their masters following behind. Grant allows himself a moment of relief.

He has every intention of letting the conversation - the borderline fight, if he’s honest - go and telling Fitz to get some sleep while he can. But then he sees Fitz’s sour expression and the way his eyes dart out into the darkness, towards the fallen sandwich.

“This is probably gonna be the only chance we get to talk,” Grant says. “Alone. For a while, anyway.”

Fitz shifts uncomfortably. Good. Grant’s not proud of it, but this isn’t the first time on this mission he's gone out of his way to make Fitz squirm. (For example, none of his escape plans back at the bar really involved losing a finger. Breaking a few, sure.) But this right here? This is where it ends.

“I know you’re in love with my wife.”

“What?” Fitz says just a little too quickly. “I am not-”

“You are,” Grant says. They’ve been dancing around this for years, and if this mission’s gonna succeed, they need to move on from it. “Probably didn’t even realize until she was taken off the market, am I right? And now you can’t help but hate me for keeping her from you.”

“‘Off the market’!” Fitz scoffs. “She’s not a piece of _meat_.”

Grant keeps his stare level. It doesn’t take very long at all before Fitz breaks it.

“You don’t deserve her,” he mutters to the water at their feet. “You don’t even love her! To you she’s just some- some _booty call_. You probably only married her for money or something. Were your parents holding back your trust fund until you walked down the aisle? Is that why you kept her waiting?”

Grant has to fight to keep his features schooled. Jemma certainly wasn’t _waiting_ for him. He’s pretty sure she was hoping the whole thing had been forgotten, just like he was.

“Are you done?” he asks coolly.

Fitz crosses his arms over his chest and hunches his shoulders in what might be termed a shrug. Grant decides to take it.

“All right. Now it’s my turn. I get that you’re frustrated and you feel I’ve wronged you somehow by _taking Jemma off the market_ , but - and right here? This is me pretending this involves you at all. _You had your chance._ You had _years_ working right next to her in a lab, and you never made a move. And you know what? I almost wish you had. Do you have any idea what it’s like to always hear your wife’s name in conjunction with another man's?”

Garrett used to laugh about it. Grant’s pretty sure he was making money on the side by pitting Grant against other junior agents on those occasions he had to hear that damn nickname one too many times. Hell, Grant even overheard _Skye_ telling Jemma she thought Fitz was her husband at first.

“Well maybe,” Fitz says, “that wouldn’t happen so much if you were ever there!”

“We’re still on my time here,” Grant says, letting just a little intimidation seep into his tone. “The state of my marriage has nothing to do with you. My vows were to Jemma and hers to me. So unless you plan on inserting yourself in the middle of that - and I think we both know how low Jemma would think of you if you did - I suggest you let it go.”

A long moment passes. Long enough that Grant wonders if he’s finally shut Fitz up. No such luck.

“Is that a threat, Agent Ward?”

“Yes.” He should probably deny it. His cover would. But then his cover wouldn’t have gone this far down this road anyway. His cover would’ve been _nice_ to Fitz, tried to be friends. Well, Grant’s given it all the effort he can over the last couple months. (Which isn't much, honestly) It’s time for the real Grant Ward to make an appearance. “Whatever else you might think of me, I have always tried to be a good husband to Jemma.” Fitz makes an ugly noise that tells Grant just what he thinks of _that_. “Hey! She hasn’t exactly been hunting for a house in the suburbs. We’re doing our best with the crap situation our parents gave us. I’d think Jemma’s _best friend_ would care more about helping her through that than taking every opportunity to inform her of her husband’s shortcomings.”

Fitz’s shoulders hunch a little lower. “I don’t take _every_ opportunity.”

Now it’s Grant’s turn to make an ugly noise, but there’s a bit of a smile in it too. Fitz’s fight has gone out of him and he’s got plenty to think about. Maybe Grant will be lucky and when they get back to the Bus Fitz will at least not _actively_ try to undermine him with Jemma. Wouldn’t that be nice?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant is never lucky. He should know that by now. Even the best thing to ever happen to him - Jemma - comes with a whole host of strings he can never hope to untangle. And now he doesn’t have to.

“This is my thing,” Fitz says angrily when Grant tries to finish the job for him. “The covering my back and beating people up, that’s your job. So do that while I finish this and we’ll meet the extraction team.”

Grant almost can’t say it. Much as he dislikes Fitz, he’s actually come to realize that his biting attitude might’ve made them friends under different circumstances. Or at least not bitter enemies, both in love with the same woman.

Grant’s heart stutters. He’s … in love with Jemma. And he’s about to die. Hell.

“There is no extraction,” he says. He ignores Fitz’s horrified expression and plows on. “Tell me how to finish. You can make it out the way we came in, get to the bar.” He grins. That old witch’ll definitely help Fitz get home.

Fitz’s jaw tightens. “No.” He goes back to work on the stupid thing and Grant _really_ wants to hit him.

Doesn’t he realize that if they both die down here, Jemma’s gonna be alone? She might be okay with losing Grant - she was forced into marrying him, she’ll get over losing him eventually - but _Fitz_? Much as Grant hates to admit it, losing Fitz will kill her. He’s not about to let that happen.

“You’re not the only one Coulson talked to before we left,” Fitz says, and Grant’s so shocked he forgets his plan to physically drag Fitz away from his work. “He told me to take care of you too.” Fitz smiles darkly. “And so did Jemma. Told me to make sure you made it home safe, didn’t get ‘shot unnecessarily.’” His impersonation of her accent is hysterical. Or would be. If they weren’t about to die. “She’ll never forgive me if I come back without you.”

Grant’s not used to people giving a damn about him, let alone people caring enough to look out for him. It’s _his_ job to look out for _other_ people, after all. So he’s struck momentarily dumb.

“Fitz-” he tries.

“You’re not around a lot,” Fitz says, still working away, and Grant’s sure it’s more because he _can’t_ say this if he has to look at him while he does. “So you don’t know how much it’ll hurt her. You don’t know how scary she can be.” He smiles a little. “I come back without you, I don’t get the girl. She’ll cry on my shoulder, but she’ll never be able to look a me again. And, frankly, I won’t be able to look at myself either. I’m not running. You got the beacon ready?”

Grant holds up the signaling device. “Last chance to back-”

Fitz pulls the core of the device from the machine. Grant hits the signal, telling SHIELD the device is neutralized and they can move in. This is it.


	8. the well

Grant finishes off his drink and makes to motion for another (SHIELD’s paying and Grant plans on taking full advantage), but a firm hand grasps his wrist before he can.

May’s eyes are intense on the bartender and don’t leave him until he flees to the other end of the bar. Then they land on Grant.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

He motions to his empty glass. “Well I _was_ drinking myself into oblivion.”

She eases onto the stool beside his. “That’s not gonna help you any more than hitting things did.”

He scoffs. “Hitting things helped.” It didn’t, not long term, but _while_ he was hitting things, it felt damn good.

May doesn’t believe him. She keeps up her staring until he breaks down and looks at her. Her expression softens. “You’ve got a room upstairs and a beautiful woman waiting for you.”

Grant flinches. From the looks of it, the bartender isn’t coming back anytime soon, so he reaches behind the bar to grab a beer for himself. “The last thing I need is to be around Jemma.”

“You don’t believe that.”

He shakes his head, the beer still unopened between his hands. “I can’t be around her, not like this. The things I said- hell, the things I _wanted_ to say …” He twists off the cap and takes a long swig. “I could’ve killed her,” he says quietly. The urge to lash out was almost more than he could hold back in the lab. It was all he could do to escape to his punching bag. If he hadn’t, if he’d been a little less firm in his resolve… 

May’s hand rests on his shoulder. Grant doesn’t remember bending over the bar or screwing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t make any move to shake her off.

“I’ve been where you are,” she says gently. “I know what it’s like to have to deal with all of this … and with someone else too. So take it from someone who knows, if you let this thing win, it _will_ end your marriage.” Her fingers wrap around his shoulder, tugging him up so he can see her when she says, “But I think Grant Ward is the kind of guy who fights for what he wants.”

The thought of losing Jemma creates a hollow in his chest that’s quickly filled with a swell of rage. He _is_ that kind of guy. But Jemma isn’t the only thing he wants. Coulson’s admission today, that he _trusts_ Grant, reminded him of the mission. He needs to get back on track to finding that miracle cure, which means he needs to solidify this newfound camaraderie with May.

“What about you?” he asks. “How are you gonna…”

She smiles, long and slow, and turns on the stool. She rests her elbows on the bar behind her, pushing her chest out, and crosses her bare legs. That dress is _definitely_ not regulation.

“I plan on taking one of these lucky, young studs upstairs for the night of his life. Now get lost already, you’re scaring them off.”

Grant does as he’s told, taking the pilfered beer along for some artificial courage. Taking May’s advice will help their relationship, give her the impression she’s someone _he_ trusts, but he doesn’t want that to be why he goes. The last thing he wants is for Jemma to be (more) in the middle of his mission. 

He spends a long time in the elevator trying to find a reason, a real one, for going up to his room. He still hasn’t found one when the doors start to close, but he has finished the beer. He leaves the empty bottle where it falls as he slips out the doors. His feet carry him to the room, but he hesitates outside.

He’s read May’s file cover to cover, he knows her history, knows she speaks from experience, and he absolutely doesn’t want to lose Jemma like that, but he can still remember the blind rage that filled him in the lab. And later, at the monastery. That guy, that’s not a guy he ever wanted Jemma to see. How can he face her after that? How can he expect not to lose her after that?

He rests his palm against the door. He’ll go back to the Bus, sleep this off in his own bed. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll tackle the problem of … this.

Only he can’t move. His feet, so eager to get here, refuse to turn away now that they’re so close to their destination. Traitors. He’s just thinking he should’ve saved some of that liquid courage for leaving, when a high-pitched cry and a crash sound from inside the room.

“Jemma!” he yells, fumbling for his key.

What he finds, when he bursts through the door, isn’t the attacker he expects. The windows are closed, the light is on in the bathroom and, thanks to the mirror, he can clearly see there’s no one in there. Hell, the closet’s even open. There's no place for anyone to hide.

“No!” Jemma wails from the floor, tugging the blankets further off the bed and curling into them. “This is not how it’s supposed to go!”

His fear and rage still simmering, he asks, “Are you all right?” as calmly as he can. It still comes out more of a bark than anything.

Jemma stills. “Yes,” she says, her voice made smaller by the blanket she’s using to cover her face.

“Did someone attack you?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“No.”

He nods even though she can’t possibly see him and turns his back on … on whatever the hell this is, to close the door firmly. He takes his time, anchoring himself in the mundane task of locking the door before daring to face her again. Not that he can really, since she hasn’t moved.

“Not how what’s supposed to go?” he asks.

The blankets shift as she takes a deep breath, and then all at once fall open to reveal a mess of black silk and lace. Grant’s brain stutters to an abrupt halt. Even the rage can’t seem to contend with this.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” she says to the ceiling, “sort of a pick-me-up after the horrid day you’ve had. Skye helped me pick it out and it fit fine in the store but I couldn’t remember how everything went and one of the straps got caught on another and-” She looks his way, her cheeks pink. “I fell.”

His feet once again take initiative, and the rest of his body quickly catches on. He kneels beside her, one of his hands reaching out to play with the ties at her breast because he just can’t help it.

“Good surprise,” he says, and kisses her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma is just congratulating herself on a job well done (husband successfully seduced and even asleep before her! Miracle!) when said husband begins making distressed noises in his sleep.

“Grant,” she says, touching his face in hopes of drawing him out of it gently. “Grant.”

He gasps awake, flying into a defensive crouch on the mattress. There is some part of her that's touched by the hand he has angled back toward her, as if to guard her from the imagined danger. 

She watches the tension in his shoulders unravel. His hand falls to her thigh, but pulls away as if burned. She reaches for him, intent on laying a comforting hand on his back when he settles next to her again, but he doesn’t. He moves to the edge of the bed and stays there, fingers wrapped around the edge of the mattress, head bowed.

She curls her knees up to her chest and rests her head on them. The ache between her thighs, only moments ago a pleasant reminder, now only serves to draw attention to the distance between them.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she says softly. “You don’t have to tell me … anything.” 

She understands, intellectually, what it is a lone specialist does. Grant’s job is not _nice_ or _kind_. Necessary, yes, but there is a reason most of their interactions over the last three years have involved him showing up at her door to spend his post-mission leave in her bed. She cannot imagine the things that might give him nightmares, but she's not at all surprised he has them. 

“It won’t change anything between us if-”

“It was Thomas.”

Jemma can count on one hand the number of times she’s heard Grant mention his younger brother. That he would enter into the conversation today, well, Jemma should have expected it.

“It’s understandable,” she says, unsure whether or not it’s the right thing to say. “Childhood trauma lasts longer than any other and accidents are the most difficult to-”

“It _wasn’t_ an accident.” His voice is tight, thick the way it was in the lab. He turns his head but doesn’t quite look at her over his shoulder. “Christian threw him into that well. And then he- he threatened to throw me in too if I let him up. I was so afraid of him, I- I let Thomas die.”

The horror that Christian - granted, a man Jemma barely knows - would do such a thing, is quickly replaced with a deep, heavy sadness because Grant finally looks at her, meets her eyes with ones filled with pain and hatred and fear. He’s waiting, she realizes, for her to condemn him.

“You were a _child_ ,” she says gently. He stands and paces the floor, shaking his head against her words. “You were _scared_. It’s not your fault.”

Jemma doesn’t know what to do, how to fix this. This isn’t something she can find a cure for. Grant’s innocence isn’t something she can test and prove in a lab. All she can do is say it’s true and hope he believes her.

He stops his pacing. His arms fall limply to his sides and his hollow gaze rests on the space just past the end of the bed. 

“He said I was glad he’s dead,” he says softly.

“That’s silly!” It’s utterly the wrong thing to say, but it’s out before she can stop it. “Grant, what reason could you _possibly_ have to be happy that he’s gone?”

It happens slowly enough that Jemma realizes what’s coming but, like seeing a car crash happen up ahead, it’s impossible to do anything but watch the tragedy unfold. His eyes move slowly over the length of the bed to rest heavily on her.

“Oh,” she says. They’ve never talked about it. In Jemma’s own life - up until her life became irrevocably entwined with Grant’s - it was a mere footnote. The boy she would have married, dead before his time. She doesn’t know the specifics, young as she was when it happened (and it's not as though anyone would have cared to involve her in the discussion regardless), but her impression is that the papers were in the process of being finalized when Thomas died, and that Grant’s family simply moved the burden of betrothal to him.

Jemma slips out of bed, on the far side from Grant, allowing him ample opportunity to run if he so chooses. His hands are shaking and she can’t guess precisely why, with the day he’s had, but she takes one of them between hers. She’s always loved his hands. So big and worn and male. 

“We’re a perfect match then,” she says, keeping her eyes on his knuckles and scars and callouses. “Because while I’m sure that Thomas would have grown up into a wonderful man, I’m happy I have you.”

His fingers jerk between hers, but he doesn’t pull away. She wraps one hand around his thumb and draws her fingers over the back of his hand.

“I’m not happy about what happened - to you or to Thomas - but you are the best man I have ever known, even after today,” she adds, knowing he must be thinking it. “Have you ever considered how terrible my mystery husband could have been? Because I did. Often. And you, Grant Ward, do not even begin to live up to those expectations.” She brings his hand to her lips to kiss his knuckles. 

Now that she’s said her piece, she tilts her head back to look at him. He’s breathing heavily and his eyes are shining.

He pulls his hand out of hers and, before she can worry that he hasn’t heard a word she’s said, grips her face between his hands to kiss her.

It is not, she knows, an acceptance, but it is a beginning.


	9. repairs

Skye’s eyes drift to her bunk. They’ve been doing that every thirty seconds since she left Hannah sleeping. “I just feel bad for her,” she says, fingers twisting her beer between her fingers, “for both of them.”

Grant scoffs into his own drink. “He killed people. Over a _crush_.”

“Okay, yeah, but he didn’t mean to. And all those people he attacked-”

“ _Us_.”

“He was just trying to protect Hannah. It’s kind of sweet. In a scary, homicidal way.”

Grant sets his beer carefully on the bar, never taking his eyes off Skye.

“What?” she asks.

“Your horrible choice in boyfriends makes a lot more sense now.”

She shoves him, not hard and not even well with the distance between them. “Yeah, we don’t all get the perfect person chosen for us at birth or whatever.”

Grant hides his grin behind another sip of his beer. That’s becoming a problem, smiling whenever Jemma’s around or mentioned. It does wonders for keeping his rage in check, but it’s a tell, and one he needs to quash before it gets him - or Jemma - in trouble.

“I guess that’s why you went through with it, huh?” Skye asks. “She told me, about the arrangement or whatever. Some of it, anyway. Like that you always could’ve said no.” She smiles, a little too big and goofy. He maybe should cut her off soon. “Was it love at first sight?”

“No,” Grant says, that smile of his only growing as he remembers their first meeting. Damn.

It was the day of the freaking wedding and there was no way in hell Grant was gonna meet his bride for the first time at the altar, so he did the reasonable thing and snuck out the window of his childhood room, shimmied down the drainpipe, and climbed through the window of the room set aside for the bridal party to dress in.

He barely even sees her at first, he’s in such a hurry. She’s alone, but he can hear his mother throwing a fit out in the hall. (Apparently someone’s noticed him missing.) He runs to block the door with a chair and catches it just as a burst of pink is trying to come through.

“Anna,” he says seriously.

His sister-in-law only rolls her eyes. “I can give you five minutes, ten if she’s too angry with you to think of Jemma.” He always did think Anna was too good for Christian.

“Ten it is,” he says with a smile and shuts the door in her face. Once the chair is securely beneath the doorknob, he turns and gets his first real look at his fiancée.

John said she was pretty - prettier than Grant deserved, were his exact words - but since John’s definition of beauty tends to depend on whether or not a person has breasts, Grant wasn’t all that convinced. He resolves to trust John’s estimations a little more in the future.

“Hi,” he says.

“Grant?” she guesses, her wide eyes relaxing somewhat. He nods and she makes an attempt at a smile. “Isn’t this supposed to be bad luck?” She plucks at the skirt of her dress. It’s not nearly as bad as he envisioned, he won’t have any trouble reaching her on the dance floor. She must've fought his mother over it, to keep from being stuck in a circus tent.

Before he can come up with some flippant comment about luck, she lets out a gasp and lunges forward to the floor. He makes it halfway to her before she’s back up, clutching a slightly asymmetrical bouquet of flowers in her hands.

“Ohnoohnoohno,” she says, forgetting all about him and heading for a couch at the side of the room.

He follows, grabbing a fallen rose off the ground on his way.

“Your mother gave me this to keep me from wrinkling the dress,” she says, attempting to right the bouquet. “If she finds out I dropped it-”

“You’ll tell her it was my fault,” Grant says.

She stops her fussing to stare at him. He isn’t quite sure what’s going on in her head, but he’s shocked her, that much is certain. In a good way, too. She’s touched by what he said, and even though his training tells him to use that to his advantage, he shrugs it off.

“She already hates me,” he says.

Jemma doesn’t laugh or try to deny it, which tells him plenty about how much she’s learned about his family already. She turns her attention back to the flowers, adjusting one slightly.

He shoves his hand under her face. “Grant Ward.”

She smiles at the hand and takes it readily. “Jemma Simmons- oh!" Her grip goes slightly lax. "That’s the last time I’ll be able to do that, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Grant asks. It’s a nice neutral question, one she could easily take to mean  _are you taking my name?_ if she wanted to avoid the elephant in the room.

She takes it the way he means it, her expression growing resolute. He likes her a little for that. “Yes. Unless you have some objection?”

“Plenty,” he says honestly, “but none that’ll stop this.”

She smiles at her flowers. “I suppose it might be a positive. It might put an end to an unfortunate nickname that’s been following me professionally. It’s not insulting,” she’s quick to assure him, “but sometimes it feels a bit … impersonal.”

“You mean being called FitzSimmons doesn’t make you feel like your own individual person? I am shocked.”

She huffs out a short laugh. “Yes. Quite.”

He watches her face, waiting for the moment he knows is coming. Her hands still over the tops of the flowers and her warm expression goes slack. All of a sudden her head snaps up. “How did you know that name?”

There’s something a little shrill about her voice - probably she’s worried she’s been talking to a terrorist or a kidnapper all this time - so he pulls out his badge before she can build herself up into a panic.

“Oh thank God,” she sighs.

He chuckles. “Not the reaction that usually gets.”

“What are you then? Communications?”

He lifts an eyebrow and settles back against the arm of the couch, letting his body speak for itself.

“Field agent?” she tries.

“Specialist.”

“Oh.”

He’s not exactly surprised. When John told him she was an agent, he was as shocked as she was, but when he told her she was a _lab rat_? He’s pretty sure his expression was a lot less generous towards her profession than hers is towards his.

“That’ll make things easier, I suppose,” she says a little weakly. “Less paperwork, probably. And-” she smiles- “it’s a bit of a relief, to be honest. I don’t have to figure out how to…” She gestures between them, somehow thinking that explains what she’s trying to say.

“Lie to me?” he offers.

“No!" Her lips purse in disapproval. "How to keep up my career without telling you things you’re not cleared to know. What level are you, by the way?”

“Five. You?”

“Two. Well, three, shortly. Fitz and I have been tapped to work on something at the Sandbox that will require a promotion.”

He sets aside the question of her and Fitz to say, “Congratulations,” and is pleased to see her preen slightly under the praise.

She’s proud of her work in SHIELD. Good to know - even though John’s made it clear that while Grant’s expected to marry her, he’s not expected to turn her. Why one without the other, he wouldn’t say, but it’s not Grant’s job to question. (If he had to guess though, he'd say this isn't about HYDRA. It's about John's side projects and Jemma's family's deep pockets.)

“So you’re not looking to settle down?” he asks. When her expression goes questioning again, he says, “The Sandbox. Not exactly the kind of place you can commute to.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” She takes a deep breath, readying herself for whatever she’s about to say. “I agreed to marry you, but I didn’t agree to abandon my life for you. Perhaps that’s not in the spirit of the original agreement and it’s certainly not fair to you, but it’s how I feel. I’ve worked too long and too hard to get where I am.”

He takes his own deep breath and spreads his hands wide, the rose he never gave back to her held between his first two fingers. “I feel exactly the same way. I’ll be your husband - I’ll apply for an SA-73 the second I get back to the Hub - but I’m not gonna drop myself down to desk duty.”

“SA-73?” she asks.

Of course she doesn’t know what that is. It’s not the sort of form a scientist needs to be worried about.

“It’s a special allowance. Basically it puts a mark on my file saying I’m in a committed relationship and don’t want to be assigned any missions that will require seducing a mark.” That’s not always possible - even the most mundane missions sometimes require a little bit of flirting to get out of - but SHIELD won’t be sending him in to sleep with anyone and they'll be more understanding if his refusal to do so jeopardizes a mission.

“Won’t that hurt your career?” she asks. He can’t help but smile at the question. Here he just told her he’s gonna try his best not to have any affairs, and her first worry is whether or not his superiors will be angry.

“Maybe it’ll slow it down a little, but you’re not the only one who’s in demand.” He’s got plenty of other skills SHIELD is only too happy to utilize.

A knock sounds on the door and his mother’s voice, pitched to a false sweetness, calls, “Jemma, darling! How are you doing in there?”

“Just a moment!” she calls. Her hands fist around the base of the bouquet, it looks perfect now, no sign it ever took a fall. “That’s it, then. We’re doing this.”

“Still time to back out,” he says. He wants her to. He’s being ordered into this for reasons he doesn’t even get to know, so he can’t do it, but she should be running screaming. He’s not a good person, and only a few minutes with Jemma have proven that she definitely is. She should leave him far behind and find some nice, normal guy to fall in love with.

He doesn’t know why the thought of her doing just that makes his stomach clench.

There’s another knock, louder this time. Grant stands and offers her his hand. She takes it demurely and, once standing, is left looking sadly at the rose in his other hand, probably thinking of the fit his mother will throw when she sees it.

He deftly snaps the stem closer to the flower and reaches around her to tuck it into the hair gathered at the base of her neck. The blush that stains her cheeks matches the pink of the petals perfectly. She tries to hide it by turning for the door, and he’s glad; it lets him hide his grin. He knows he’s attractive, but it’s good to know his future wife knows it too.

She pauses by the door and he steps forward, thinking she wants him to move the chair, but her hand on his stops him. “You get vacations?” she asks. “Leave, after missions?”

“Sometimes.” He gets more than he actually uses. A lot of his leave time is spent on missions for Garrett.

“Do you think you might like to spend some of it in Northern Africa?” Her smile is a little too bright, a little overly hopeful.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “I’d like that.” And he really, really would.

He got what he wanted from the conversation - more than, even - but the look on his mother’s face when they opened the door was something he’ll cherish until his dying day.

“I liked her,” he says to Skye. “She was nice, kind, a good person. She wasn’t what I expected.”

“So you married her? Because she was _nice_?”

Skye’s mostly drunk, and it’s not like Grant can tell her the truth anyway, so he says, “Yep,” with a smile and is rewarded with a truly impressive eye roll.

“You really know nothing about love.” She wobbles on her feet as she comes out from behind the bar, but manages to keep herself steady even when she pokes him in the chest. “I think you knew how lucky you were that Jemma was stuck with a guy like you. I think you’ve been in love with her since you first met and you’re just an idiot who hasn’t figured it out yet.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, keeping his smile firmly in place. She’s veering dangerously close to the truth here, he’s not about to encourage her.

“Yep,” she says resolutely. “I saw you downstairs. If Tobias had gone after Jemma, you totally would’ve killed him.” She leans in close as she teeters past him. “Because you lo-ove her.”

Grant watches her go - to Jemma’s bunk since hers is occupied. He thinks that murderous instinct was probably more the result of the berserker rage, but other than that, he can’t say she’s wrong.


	10. the bridge

Jemma can hear footsteps approaching the lab but doesn’t turn. If it’s someone who needs her, they won’t hesitate to interrupt her study of Peterson’s medical records, and if it’s Fitz, well, she won’t be accepting his apology easily.

There’s a tap on the doors and Jemma smiles. Grant has a habit of doing that, knocking before entering so as not to startle her. (It grates on him, she knows, that she’s not aware enough of her surroundings to notice him entering, but seeing as the last time he failed to knock and came up behind her unannounced, the chemicals she was working with nearly burned a hole in the floor of the Bus, it’s really for the best that he adapt to her shortcomings.)

A throat clears behind her, one that is definitely _not_ Grant’s.

She whirls on the spot, clutching her tablet to her chest. “Agent Peterson!”

“Hey,” he says with a faint smile. It wanes considerably as she backs around the table, away from him.

She wishes now that she hadn’t allowed her disagreement with Fitz to get quite so overblown. If they hadn’t fought, he would be working in the corner right now and she could leave Peterson to him, but as it is, he’s gone upstairs to escape her "utter lack of fashionable eye” while he works on the body armor. With no other escape in sight, Jemma sets to double-checking the new batch of dendrotoxin rounds, which will certainly be needed if the team is to be going up against more Centipede-enhanced soldiers.

“Did I do something wrong?” Peterson asks.

She straps on her goggles and reaches for a pair of gloves. “What? Why ever would you think that?”

“Well…” He steps up to the table, resting his hands along the edge after only a moment’s hesitation. “You were defending me in the briefing room earlier-”

“Precisely,” she says, her focus on the round she’s holding up to the light. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Yeah,” he says, soundly slightly uncomfortable. “Only I get the feeling I’ve somehow used that up between then and now. You’ve been avoiding me.”

She laughs, she fears, unconvincingly. “If I were avoiding you, would I be having this conversation with you now?”

“Maybe.” He’s so _tall_ , even at this distance just a tip of his head alters the quality of her light. She adjusts her examination accordingly. “Or, if you don’t have a good excuse to leave, you might do busywork to avoid really paying attention to me.”

Drat. “Am I that obvious?” she asks, her arm still frozen in midair.

He grins. “Little bit.”

Oh, this is terrible. She sets the round down - they were all checked not twenty minutes ago anyway - and tears off her goggles and gloves, tossing them into a heap on the table.

“So, did I do something wrong?” Peterson prods. He sounds so sincere, like a wounded puppy. And this really isn’t his fault at all, so she feels doubly bad.

“No,” she says, knowing full well she’s pouting. She wills herself to look at him, to give him that much common courtesy. He looks as bad as he sounds. “You’ve done nothing wrong at all. You’re a perfect agent, respectful and courteous and eager to please and symmetrical-”

“‘Symmetrical’?” he cuts in.

She wraps her arms around herself as a blush - a bad one - stains her cheeks. Her left hand curls tightly around her elbow until she can feel the curve of her wedding band digging in. Peterson’s eyes drop to that hand.

“I should go,” she says.

She means to rush out the back doors and hide in the bowels of the plane, but he reaches for her before she can make it past the edge of the table. He doesn’t touch her - has enough sense of the situation to pull back at the last moment - but his proximity effectively stops her.

He holds up his hands, putting some distance between them. “Hey. I just wanna say, it happens. I’ve been married - and I cannot imagine what it’s gotta be like being married and in _SHIELD_ , but I’d guess it’s even harder - but my point is, just because you think somebody’s-” his mouth quirks- “ _symmetrical_ , doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. You’re avoiding me, that’s you doing the right thing.”

“Really?” she asks, relief making her knees slightly weak. When Agent Peterson entered the briefing room this morning, it was the first time since this assignment began that she felt attraction to anyone other than Grant. And while she knows she would never _do_ anything - it’s far from the first time since their wedding day that she’s felt such bursts of attraction - it _was_ the first time she felt such things while in the presence of her husband.

“Really,” Peterson says. “I mean, you don’t want to, do you?”

“No!” she says readily. The very thought of being with any man other than Grant - even a specimen such as Agent Peterson - is enough to instantly cool any stirrings of lust. “Oh,” she says, smiling at that realization.

Peterson smiles in return. It’s still attractive, but seeing it no longer leaves her feeling guilty. “Glad we cleared that up.” He nods firmly and leaves her to her work.

Jemma happily returns to it, much lighter now than she’s been since Peterson joined them. She’s barely reopened his file when firm hands spin her around and an even firmer body pins her against the table. She gets a brief view of Grant looming over her before he’s kissing her.

She gasps - understandably - and he immediately takes advantage, slipping his tongue past her lips. One of his hands is in her hair, almost painful the way it holds her in place. Between that and his hips against hers, she can only move her arms. She tries to create more space between them, but Grant catches both her hands in one of his without any trouble and holds them firmly over his heart.

It isn’t a _bad_ kiss. More forceful than she’s used to, certainly, and completely unexpected, but it’s still Grant and he has a special talent for shutting off her constantly turning brain. And once he has her effectively immobilized, there’s little for her to do but be kissed. Thoroughly.

He makes no move to end it until she lets out a small mewl of pain. Her lungs, blast them, are aching for air and demand to have it. He pulls immediately back, just far enough that she can take a breath. It’s deep and gasping and followed by a disappointed whine.

His mouth curves up on one side, and she’s reminded of the sheer oddness of the situation. Grant isn’t one for such enthusiastic displays of affection. Even to torment Skye, he’ll only deliver quick pecks to Jemma’s hair or hand or, if he’s had a drink or two, her lips.

“Grant?” she asks, her voice a little weak.

His hand in her hair kneads her scalp. His head dips in a slight nod and she realizes suddenly where she’s seen that look in his eyes before: the hotel, the night they dropped off Randolph. While she was dying of embarrassment on the floor of their room, he was looking at her like … like …

Like she was his.

He must have overheard her conversation with Peterson - and she has _told_ him not to lurk in hallways - and it stirred some of that rage he’s still battling. She can’t help a smile. Oh, she feels a little guilty of course, but it’s a small thing compared to the pride of having Grant desire her.

When he was first exposed he fled from her for fear of harming her, now he’s coming to her side before starting a brawl. Yes, she thinks, the plan to divert the rage’s focus with sex is certainly working. She’ll have to send Randolph a thank you note for the idea.

But not now. Now, she has other ideas.

She flattens her palms against his chest in a manner not meant to push him away, but to feel the warmth of him. “There’s more than an hour left before we land,” she says, “and Fitz has forbidden me from even looking at his latest project until it’s complete.” She shifts her hips as best she can with the edge of the table digging into her back, giving Grant an idea of just what she’d most like to spend that hour doing.

His eyes harden - as do other parts of his anatomy - and his grip on her tightens in a way that she finds surprisingly thrilling. It must be Grant. She trusts him completely and while his behavior is possessive - not an attitude she typically approves of - it’s in a way that promises to be just as pleasurable as their encounters always are.

“Why?” he asks, the low timbre of his voice sending a jolt of anticipation through her. She feels his blunt nails in her hair. “Because of Peterson?”

It might be the wrong move with a man currently overwhelmed by wrath courtesy of an alien weapon, but she rolls her eyes.

“Because it would be incredibly rude of you to begin things you don’t intend on finishing.” She moves her hips again, leaning as far forward as he will allow. “So _finish_ and find out whose name I babble incoherently if it will make you feel better.”

His sharp smile dulls a little at the reminder of how loose her tongue gets. He steps back, just far enough that she can move, and seems content to wait for her to get her feet again. Once she’s steady though, he doesn’t move, and she realizes he’s waiting for her to decide where the finishing will take place. That likely means something - about the nature of the berserker rage or Grant or both - but she won’t be analyzing it now.

She laces their fingers and pulls him along behind her into storage.

 


	11. the magical place

SHIELD has this stupid policy about observing the basic human rights of prisoners, and somehow that translates into the even more unbelievable requirement that any injuries they sustained over the course of being captured be looked at. _After_ those of any of the arresting agents of course, but since Coulson’s pulling rank to put his physical off (and he definitely needs one; Grant did not miss the way he was leaning against May while she walked him to his office) and Grant somehow escaped with only a few bumps and bruises, that means Jemma has time to look Raina over before Hand's people arrive to secure the site.

“Does that hurt?” Jemma asks as she tips Raina’s chin up. Grant is very proud of the bruise coloring her cheek; if Skye’s late for training tomorrow, he won’t even make her do extra pull-ups.

Raina’s eyes are closed against the light, but they slit open just far enough that he can see them slide in his direction.

“Can you speak _at all_?” Jemma presses. She’s getting that little worried crinkle between her eyebrows.

“She’s fine,” Grant says. “I just told her she wasn’t allowed to talk to you.”

Jemma gives him an aggrieved look before turning back to Raina. “You’re allowed to speak to me,” she says. “Now, can you?”

Raina shoots him one more glance before saying, “Yes.” She tries to hide it, but it hurts her to say even that and she keeps all her answers as short as possible while Jemma continues her examination. Grant can’t say he’s sorry.

He knows Raina works for John and he accepts that sometimes the methods they have to employ are less than savory, but he doesn’t have to like seeing them turned against people he cares about.

“Well, if that’s all...” Whatever the end of that sentence is supposed to be, Jemma never gets there. Her expression shuts off and Grant can see the moment she realizes she can’t just let Raina go back to the Cage as is. She _wants_ to, that much is obvious, but she can’t do it. “I can give you an ice pack for the swelling,” she says mournfully.

“Thank you,” Raina says, and there’s something in her tone that draws Grant’s attention. She watches Jemma grab an ice pack from the fridge and smiles in thanks when she helps her get her cuffed hands around it.

“All right,” Grant says, pushing off from the wall. He’s had more than enough of this. “Let’s go.”

Raina slides readily off the stool and allows Grant to take her arm without any fight. The only time she makes a move of her own is at the lab doors, when she pauses to say, “Thank you, Agent Ward,” over her shoulder. Grant maybe pulls her along more forcefully than is absolutely necessary after that.

Skye and Fitz are in the lounge and their conversation stops the moment he and Raina appear. She isn’t bothered by their glares. If anything, she seems to enjoy them. Grant pulls her along faster.

He’s expecting a parting barb - something about how Coulson will eventually give them what they want or the Clairvoyant will already have a plan to work around this setback (and Grant's still here, so, yeah) - but he’s not expecting what she does say.

“Your wife is a lovely woman.” She smiles like it’s a compliment - it’s not, not coming from her - and steps calmly into the Cage.

Grant’s hand fists over the door controls. This is his own fault. He never should’ve mentioned Jemma to Raina at all. He showed his weakness to a woman with absolutely zero compunction about exploiting it. It doesn’t matter that Raina works for John either. There’s no way he can order his people to keep away from Jemma, not without drawing undue attention. And Grant just had to go and paint a target on her back.

Raina sits primly in the only chair currently in the Cage and holds the ice pack up to her cheek. The look she gives Grant is pure innocence.

He slams his fist down on the lock button and the door slides shut.

He takes the back stairs to the lower levels, not wanting to be waylaid by Fitz and Skye. He slips quietly down the stairs and through the narrow halls to the lab.

Despite Jemma’s standing order to make noise, he doesn’t knock before entering. He just wants to _see_ her, to know she’s safe and okay. Once he’s certain of that, he can go back upstairs.

She’s messing with equipment, but it doesn’t look like she’s doing anything important, more keeping herself occupied. Her shoulders are slumped and her expression that same wan one she’s been wearing ever since the kidnapping. He wants her smiles back.

But she’s alive. That’s enough for now. He makes to slip back out the door, but she catches the movement. She’s startled to see him, and he expects a dressing down, but then her expression collapses into relief and she’s running into his arms.

He’s been wondering where her tears were. Apparently she’s been saving them up for now.

He holds her, never once complaining at the way her fingers dig into the back of his neck or her arm is a little too tight around ribs that have been hit by more than one super soldier in the last week. He doesn’t care. All that matters right now is Jemma. Hell, if it were anyone other than John orchestrating all this, Grant’d be hunting him down just to set her mind at ease.

It takes nearly a quarter of an hour for her to cry herself out (the way her ragged sobs tear at his heart will take a lot longer to heal), but he lets her have all the time she needs. Her grip loosens, but doesn’t release, and she starts playing with the front of his shirt in a self-conscious sort of way.

“I’m afraid,” she says.

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. We got her. Coulson’s safe.” And Grant’s already determined to talk to John about making sure his people only go after specified targets, just in case.

Jemma catches his face between her hands, stopping him. “No. That’s not what I mean.” Her hands slide down to his chest, where they rest over his heart. She stares at them. “I’m afraid of ruining things.”

A warning bell goes off in his head, but he has no idea what it means, so he keeps quiet and forces his muscles to stay relaxed under her touch.

“There doesn’t seem to be a right time,” she says. “When it won’t sound like a pretty lie or a jinx or- or a mistake. So I’m just going to say it.” She meets his eyes, resolution behind the tears still lingering there. “I love you.”

The worry evaporates like mist and Grant feels momentarily light-headed. Jemma’s still talking - about not wanting him to think it’s just because of the danger of the last few days and not expecting him to reciprocate - but he barely hears her with those three words taking up all his thoughts.

He catches her face between his hands, just like she did his, and she quiets instantly. “I love you,” he says, and puts all his sincerity into it.

Her smile could light up a city, and he’s pretty sure his is just as bad. He kisses her because he just can’t help himself. It’s not like the last time they kissed in the lab. He’s not punishing her or reminding her who she belongs to, they’re both just so happy to be each other’s that there’s no room for anything else.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he says when he pulls back.

She’s always a little out of it after a good kiss, so he enjoys the few seconds it takes for what he said to register. “What? You mean the storage pods?” She smiles wryly.

“No- well…”

She smacks his chest lightly and he chuckles.

“I mean let’s go somewhere. Coulson’ll have a couple weeks of leave after what he went through and that means the whole team’ll be grounded.” He laces his arms around her back, holding her to him. “What d’you say? Second honeymoon?”

“A real one this time?” she asks archly.

He rolls his eyes. The honeymoon suite John surprised them with was perfect for their needs (it got them away from their families and it had a bed and room service, what more could they want?) but it wasn’t exactly a scenic destination either.

“I think I might know a pilot who can be convinced to drop us somewhere,” he says, faux-contemplative. May’ll be glad to set them loose anywhere in the world, so long as it means their not-so-secret rendezvous get off her plane. “Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”

She hums in thought. “Can I have a few days to think about it? I’d rather not leave the others just yet.”

He slides his hands up her back. “Of course.” He can’t say he disagrees with her. Even knowing who was behind the kidnapping and why, he can’t seem to get his guard back down. He’ll feel better leaving if they’ve had a few days of no one nearly getting killed around here beforehand.

The light in the lab increases suddenly as the cargo bay doors start opening. Reluctantly, he steps back, putting them out of each other’s reach.

“That’ll be Hand,” he sighs. He really does hate that woman.


	12. seeds

“Okay,” Skye says slowly in a way that’s clearly leading up to something. “Does this seem a little weird to anyone else?”

“Does what seem weird?” Jemma asks absently. She’s busy scanning the crowds for Agent Weaver. Class has just let out and the academy grounds are crawling with cadets.

“That we’re specialist-less!” Skye snaps. “With Coulson and May off having a romantic getaway-” (Jemma really has to roll her eyes at that; even _if_ their senior officers are engaging in that sort of relationship, they certainly wouldn’t be so unprofessional as to abandon a mission for it) “-and the scary Ward still off on solo assignment, we’re all brains and no muscle. Well, except my weak, flabby ones that are still crying from those pull-ups May made me do this morning. She is the meanest substitute teacher _ever_. But my point is! Doesn’t this seem weird? SHIELD’s gotta think there’s _something_ going on if they pulled Coulson off of his vacation for this - even if he’s not here.”

Jemma exchanges a look with Fitz. She’s actually been wondering the same herself. It’s not like SHIELD to be cavalier with her and Fitz’s safety. Their assignment to Coulson’s team notwithstanding (and _that_ she attributes more to Coulson’s pull than anything else), SHIELD has a habit of being overprotective where their brightest minds are concerned. That this mission, low on the danger scale as it may be, would go ahead with only a non-agent to watch their backs is unexpected.

“There she is!” a voice calls across the lawn. Before Jemma can turn, it’s followed by racing footsteps and then she’s being lifted up over someone’s shoulder. “My favorite Agent Ward!”

“Antoine Triplett!” she yells, pounding ineffectually at his back. “You set me down this instant or I will call your mother! See if I don’t!”

“Aw, come on, girl.” Trip obediently sets her back on her feet. “Why you gotta ruin my fun? You've been spending too much time with that husband of yours.”

Jemma ignores that frankly absurd accusation. She’s a little dizzy from being spun around, but not so much that she doesn’t see Agent Weaver following Trip at a more sedate pace. Behind her, she hears Fitz explaining to Skye that Trip is a friend of Grant’s. (“He has _friends_?” Skye asks.)

“Agent Fitz. Agent Simmons,” Weaver says, and she politely hides her laughter at Trip’s enthusiasm. “I’m sorry. Agent _Ward_.”

Jemma shakes her hand. “It’s quite all right.” Weaver is far from the first person to call her by her maiden name. Sometimes it seems like SciTech Agents use it out of spite for Operations more than because they’ve truly made an error.

Weaver is briefly introduced to Skye before explaining Trip’s presence. “With the other Agent Ward still on assignment, it was felt your team could do with a temporary replacement.”

Trip drapes an arm lazily over Jemma’s shoulders. “And I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see what kind of trouble you get up to without the old ball and chain around.”

“You mean you’re not here to flirt shamelessly with the cadets?” Jemma asks sweetly.

“Mean,” Trip says flatly. “So mean. You are _definitely_ spending way too much time with that jerk husband of yours.”

Jemma gives him a weak shove and he laughs as he steps away. Weaver extracts Jemma and Fitz from the group so that they can prepare for their presentation, and Trip promises to take good care of Skye. Jemma gives him a stern look which she hopes he understands as an order to do just that. (Skye’s never been to the Academy, who knows what trouble she’ll get up to?)

As they leave, Jemma hears Skye ask, “Seriously though, you’re friends with the scary Ward?”

Trip’s bark of laughter echoes after them, but doesn’t quite cover up Fitz’s sputters. Jemma rolls her eyes at the lot of them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A beer lowers in front of her face amid humming that might, if it came from someone with a better ear, be a match for the iconic _2001: A Space Odyssey_ music. It fits nicely with the flashing lights of the boiler room and the way the beer is silhouetted by them.

“I’d better not,” Jemma says, pushing the bottle towards Trip the moment it settles in front of her.

“All right,” he says, and she knows he means business because his usual jovial tone is completely gone. “What’s up?”

She answers that with a raised eyebrow. She has _no_ idea what he means.

He takes a sip of his own beer. “You’re mopey,” he says flatly. “And you’re not drinking _because_ you’re mopey. If I had to guess, I’d say it has something to do with my boy being MIA.”

She snatches her beer back from him and takes a long drag.

“Skye says the two of you went off on a romantic vacation,” Trip says softly.

“You should keep your distance,” Jemma says, avoiding the topic of conversation. “Fitz has a terrible crush on her. If you steal her away, he’ll never forgive you.”

Trip chuckles. “I guess he’d have reason to expect specialists to steal his crushes.”

Jemma gives him a hard look and, again, chooses to ignore the topic. Unfortunately, that allows Trip the freedom to bring it right back around to his original point.

“What happened?” he asks. She doesn’t answer right away, and regrets that when he follows the question up with, “I heard about the Asgardian spear or whatever. Did he…” He can’t even finish the sentence, though she imagines easily enough where it ends.

“It was a staff,” she says. Another swallow of her beer and she lets her gaze drift off over the crowds of boisterous cadets. “And no, he didn’t hurt me or frighten me or anything like that. He _left_. After a week in a lovely island hotel, one morning he got a phone call and just like that he was back to the specialist rotation.” There’s a lump in her throat, has been since that morning, and it grows with every word she speaks. She wasn't called back herself until just yesterday and the entire team was already aware of Grant’s status before she arrived, so she’s had no cause to discuss it with anyone at all.

Trip sighs heavily beside her. She thinks he might mutter a curse she’s unfamiliar with, but she can’t quite tell. “It’s tough,” he says, “to sit still. We’re just not made for it.”

She _knows_ that. She could see after only a day how difficult it was for Grant to be out of the field. But for the first time in a long time, it was just the two of them. No worries. No missions. Nothing but sand and sun and surf and sinfully long nights spent together. She’d hoped it might last longer than a _week_.

She draws her nails down the sides of the bottle, making sharp lines through the condensation and tearing at the label. It’s a local beer, her favorite when she was still studying here. She wonders if Trip somehow knew thanks to that specialist intuition or if he simply chose at random.

“He was _shot_ ,” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “He was shot and he had no time to recover because we were searching for Coulson and then he _left me_ the very moment he was cleared for field work again.” She looks at the shadows hiding her lap. Her wedding ring sparkles in them like a star. “Who will patch him up if I’m not there to?”

“Aw, _hell_ ,” Trip mutters and pulls her awkwardly to him across the space between their barstools.

She doesn’t cry. Because they’re on a mission. Because they’re in public. Because while Trip is a very good friend and an excellent hugger, he is still _Grant’s_ friend and she’d rather not put him in the awkward position of wondering whether or not to tell her husband she had a mini-breakdown in his absence. So she allows herself until exactly the count of ten to wallow in her misery before taking a deep, semi-refreshing breath and sitting upright once more.

“I know,” she says before he can speak. “I know he felt stifled and that his job is his job. I would never ask him to give it up. But now that I’ve been in the field…” She throws him a plaintive look, willing him to understand.

“You’ve got a better idea just how dangerous it is,” Trip finishes for her. His smile is rather one-sided. “Don’t tell him I said this, but Grant’s the best. Short of calling in an Avenger, anyway. He’ll be back before you know it - a little roughed up, probably, but that’ll just be his way of making amends; give you a chance to yell at him.”

She smiles a little wetly and is glad when Skye comes over to tell them about her talk with “that totally shifty looking girl, Callie.” If it weren’t for the interruption, Jemma might be tempted to tell Trip her final worry. Grant’s health is extremely important, as is her own hurt that he’d return to the field rather than spend the remainder of their leave with her, but the part of it all weighing most heavily on her mind is the timing. She told him she loved him and while he did return the sentiment, it cannot be ignored that at the first opportunity afterward, he left her for people who will be shooting at him.

She’s almost grateful for the horrible conclusions Skye’s news leads them to and the following chaos. It’s a welcome distraction.


	13. t.r.a.c.k.s.

Grant exchanges a joke with the conductor, all the while willing the young woman seated three feet away to _look at him_. He should be happy she’s not. She’s undercover, a daughter on vacation with her estranged father (he’s seen the profile she wrote up; it is … very thorough), and has no reason to even glance at a man carrying bags through the narrow aisle. Of course, since they’ve only been undercover for an hour or so, that doesn’t explain why she’s been avoiding him for the last two days.

He knew she’d probably be mad about him going back into the specialist rotation - she was obviously relieved that his injuries on the bridge were bad enough to keep him out of active field work during Coulson’s recovery ( _most_ of Coulson’s recovery) and he didn’t exactly tell her about it beforehand - but from what Trip told him about what should’ve been a simple consulting job at the Academy, he thought she’d be over it.

He was wrong.

His first order of business, once returning to the Bus, was to seek her out. He finds her in the lounge, staring at her tablet. Not unusual, but the shimmer in her eyes definitely is.

“Hey,” he says gently, slipping into the space beside her on the couch. He doesn’t miss the stiffening of her spine or the way she eases forward in her seat, away from his touch.

“Welcome home,” she says, her voice tight. “Did you get hurt?”

“No.” He frowns at her profile. Jemma’s never been distant with him. Even when they were first married, meeting for the first time, she was warm and open, eager to find some common ground between them.

“Good.” She means it, no matter what else she’s feeling. That’s something at least.

Her hand lands on his thigh briefly, but she snatches it back like he’s burned her. Funny, since it feels more like the other way around.

“I should get to the lab,” she says, shooting him the quickest smile in the history of the world. She looks like she might say more, but only drops her tablet on the coffee table and practically runs away from him.

He stares after her, completely nonplussed.

A normal person might not do what he does next, but then a normal person wouldn’t be three years into his marriage and just getting to know his wife. He snatches the tablet off the table and taps the screen before it can lock. (Not that he needs to. He knows all Jemma’s passcodes.) Displayed is a picture of Seth Dormer, the cadet who died, along with his autopsy report.

Grant can’t help but hate him a little. Jemma feels things so damn much, it probably doesn’t matter to her at all that Dormer was dead long before she reached him. She tried to save him and failed. That’s not something she’ll take well.

He furiously closes out the app. She always leaves way too many open and then complains about her tablets losing power. (Even Fitz has refused to invent a new battery just to support her habit.) He closes at least half a dozen more before a picture of Dr. Franklin Hall catches his attention. What the hell was she doing even _thinking_ about Hall after she just went through another loss?

Morbidly curious, he taps on the app instead of closing it, and finds a carefully prepared speech on “the dangers of allowing scientific curiosity to distract from one’s moral compass.” There are examples from half their cases - all watered down for the consumption of level one cadets - of compromises that have been made for what their perpetrators considered the greater good. Hell, even Tobias Ford made the list.

The section on Hall is the last one, much more somber than the rest and meant to remind the cadets that even doing the right thing can become wrong if they forget why they’re doing it.

There's a pull in Grant’s chest, like a string wound too tight, and he finds himself staring after his long gone wife, suddenly glad she’d been so quick to leave.

If Grant didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Jemma’s attitude in the days following his return was because she knew his true loyalties. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows he should find some way to comfort her about Dormer, but she won’t let him in and, frankly, he almost doesn’t want her to.

That doesn’t stop him from letting his eyes slide over her when he follows May. She’s looking out the window, for all the world looking like she’s enjoying the scenery.

He can’t see it - not from this angle and not with the not-even-look he throws her way - but it galls him to know she’s not wearing her ring. Seeing her without it this morning on the Bus, with makeup covering her tan lines, he wanted to punch a wall. It doesn’t matter that it’s for a mission. They’re not speaking and she’s not wearing her ring. Doesn’t that mean something?

“We’ve got a few minutes,” May says once he closes the door of their sleeper. She’s already stripping down for her part in this mission; he turns his back and follows suit. “You wanna talk about it?”

The offer is so unlike May that he nearly turns to make sure it’s really her. Sure, she’s got her compassionate side, but only when someone on the team really needs it.

Crap.

Are they that obvious?

He focuses on getting his buttons undone, expending way too much effort on the everyday task. “She’s broken up about Dormer and Gill, that’s all.”

May scoffs. It’s an ugly sound, made at his expense. He doesn’t appreciate it.

“What?” he demands, directing his anger at the grain like a face in the wooden door. “Did something else happen?” Trip filled him in on what he _thought_ were all the details, making it very, _very_ clear that Jemma would need him when he got back, but he wasn’t with her every second of the mission. He could’ve missed something.

“You’re an idiot,” May says. The bed creaks and he turns to find her sitting on the edge, staring up at him with a strangely fond look. “Sure, Jemma’s sad over those boys, who wouldn’t be? But that’s not why she’s avoiding you.”

Grant’s only half undressed (okay, less than half. He’s barely got his shirt undone), but he stops all the same, knowing this is something he’s gotta hear.

“You scared her,” May says simply. “You got shot, which would be bad enough, but on top of it Coulson was kidnapped and Peterson _died_. Then you leave for nine days on missions she’s not cleared to know about - _solo_ missions - and during that time she loses a patient.” May tips her head to one side in a strangely sympathetic gesture. “She’s worried about losing you and she’s trying to protect herself.”

The air goes out of Grant’s lungs.

He forces himself to keep the worst of what he’s feeling off his face, to breathe normally. It’s the most difficult play he’s ever made. That string in his chest, the one that hasn’t loosened since he got back, feels like it’s cutting into his heart, threatening to slice it in half.

“How do you do it?” he asks, proud of how even his voice sounds. He feels like he should be shaking out of his skin. “You and Coulson?”

May’s fondness has reached its limit apparently. (Everyone on the Bus knows about her and Coulson, they just don’t know-know. Not a surprise that two agents who’ve been working for literal decades are discrete.) She frowns as she stands and opens the window.

“Well we aren’t stupid enough to get _married_ , so there’s that.” She disappears before he can come up with a retort.

He needs to be changing, but his feet carry him to the bed and his knees betray him. He sits heavily, her accusation that his leaving was what hurt Jemma echoing in his ears. It wasn’t multiple missions either, it was one. A SHIELD agent would’ve taken the full nine days, but all Grant had to do was walk in and ask for the intel he needed, and the local HYDRA office - disguised as a research lab SHIELD was keeping an eye on - gave it to him, no questions asked. That left him plenty of time to rendezvous with John, check-in on the mission and ask the question that’s been weighing on his mind ever since he realized the depths of his feelings for Jemma.

“Jemma’s off limits, right?” he asks, cutting into John’s laughter over Peterson. “I know you’d never, but we both know what’s coming.” Even here in the middle of the German wilderness, two days’ trek from civilization, he doesn’t speak the word. He may not be loyal to HYDRA, but he knows better than to risk their wrath by speaking out of school, especially when he’s bringing them up just to make sure they’re watching his back. Or Jemma’s back, really.

John’s smile fades into something more calculating. Grant expects a speech about attachment and weakness - and he’s all set to navigate through that, has dozens of arguments for why Jemma should make it through the uprising unharmed - so he’s not expecting what John actually says.

“So you went and fell in love with your wife, huh?” He shakes his head ruefully. “I knew it was only a matter of time. She’s too good for you, you know.”

Grant’s so shocked by John’s good humor - he’s not laughing the way he was at Peterson, but he definitely thinks Grant’s love life is funny - that he doesn’t even remember his question until John starts walking away.

“Yeah, yeah,” John throws over his shoulder before Grant can ask again. “The higher-ups have had their eye on her for years. They’ll make sure nobody touches her, you just make sure you _keep her_ , all right? Don’t want an asset like that getting lost in the shuffle when everything goes to hell.”

At the time, John’s words were reassuring. HYDRA already determining that she’s too valuable to kill has a hell of a lot more weight than him asking that his wife be spared. Now though - hell, ever since he read her speech - they’re like a punch to the gut.

Jemma won’t agree with HYDRA, no matter what name they go by, no matter how much they’ve distanced themselves from their origins during their time inside SHIELD. She’ll see what they do - what _Grant’s_ been doing through Centipede - as a perversion of science.

He hasn’t been trying as hard as he should to help Jemma because he knows he’s gonna lose her when the uprising comes. Knowing she’s expecting the same thing - even if she’s thinking about it in terms of life and death, not irreconcilable differences - doesn’t make it hurt any less.


	14. t.a.h.i.t.i.

Jemma’s got her hands wrapped tightly around one of his in her lap. She hasn’t let go of him since the Bus. Just a few hours ago he would’ve killed to have her look at him, now he’d give anything to have her avoiding him again if only it meant this wasn’t happening.

Skye’s been shot. She’s somewhere in this hospital, dying, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. Everyone knows it too, except maybe Fitz who keeps leaving Jemma’s side to get coffees and snacks that no one’s asked for. He’s the only one of them without the experience to know, just from looking at Skye down in that basement, how bad it really is.

The door opens - just a few inches, but it’s enough that Jemma nearly jumps out of her skin. They all look to the windows where a field agent is standing awkwardly. His eyes are fixed on Grant.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, giving Jemma’s hand a squeeze. She doesn’t let go of him, looks like she might actually beg him to stay. He glances at Fitz for help and he readily pulls Jemma’s hands away, giving her something else to hold onto.

He keeps his back to the doors once he’s out in the hall, not wanting the others to see the look on his face. The field agent, a guy probably about ten years Grant’s senior, actually falls back half a step. Good. He’d better have a damn good reason for pulling Grant out of there.

“Thought you might want to know,” the agent says, not bothering to introduce himself, “the guy who tried to take a grenade to your girl?”

_Tried_ is an interesting word considering the asshole succeeded. Jemma filled them in on their way to find Skye and Fitz. Grant hasn’t really had time to deal with the problem of his wife throwing herself on a grenade in the midst of everything else that’s happened; his guilt over not being there to protect her - she was teamed with Coulson on this mission because of their recent falling out, it is _absolutely_ Grant’s fault she was in danger at all - pales in comparison to the fact of Skye’s injury and the accompanying guilt it brings.

Grant made sure John wouldn’t touch Jemma, but the rest of the team isn’t so safe. (He wonders if this is meant to be the lesson John didn’t give him after he asked for Jemma’s safety.) He knows it’s in pursuit of the greater goal, but that doesn’t erase Skye’s pale and bloody face from his memory.

“He’s dead,” the field agent says, the words jarring Grant back to the moment. “Woke up in transport, got a gun from one of the guards, shot himself. Damnedest thing.”

Grant knows what that means. If the guy really did wake up, it was only so the guards could have the pleasure of seeing the terror in his eyes before they offed him.

He breathes a sigh of - not _relief_ , not with Skye still in surgery - but something that relaxes the tension in his shoulders. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, but it’s the first time it’s been so blatant. Ever since he and Jemma got married, he’s been getting random agents coming up to him, reporting on her, just letting him know she was all right. He figured it was a courtesy HYDRA was showing him - and a little reminder that he was too far away to reach her. (The Incentives program may be John’s baby, but HYDRA knows a good thing when they see it.) This is the first time that courtesy has extended to actual murder. He appreciates it.

“Can’t say he didn’t deserve it,” Grant says. It’s the closest to protecting his cover he can come when he’s torn between happiness over the man’s death and annoyance that he didn’t get to do it himself.

The agent nods and scurries off down the hall, probably to wherever he’s actually supposed to be. Grant takes a moment to recenter himself before heading back through the doors.

He waves off Coulson’s raised eyebrow - it has nothing to do with Skye, it’s not important now - and heads straight for his seat next to Jemma. She extracts one of her hands from Fitz’s and latches onto him, leaning her head against his shoulder. Over her, he shoots Fitz a nod of thanks, which he isn’t surprised to find returned. There’s no room for their usual jealousy over her attention, not now.

He presses a kiss to her hair and forces himself not to hold her as tight as he'd like to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Strong arms embrace Jemma from behind and she leans into them readily. If he knocked before entering the lab, she didn’t hear, but that she blames more on herself than him. She’s been awake so long she can’t even remember leaving the medpod.

“Trip and John ’re gone,” he says against the top of her head.

She hums in response. She loves them both, but it’s a relief to have Quinn gone with them. Having him here on the Bus, with Skye clinging to life … it felt like a bad omen.

And Jemma really _must_ be exhausted if she’s thinking that way, which is likely half of why she doesn’t fight when Grant begins moving her towards the stairs.

“Coulson’s watching Skye,” he says gently, his low voice drifting soothingly through her already foggy brain, “and you’re no good to her if you’re too shaky to draw blood.”

It seems like no time at all before she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, letting him undress her. He pulls off her shirt and unclasps her bra, and she gratefully falls onto her side, the pillow cushioning her landing.

She forces her eyes to stay open, to stay on him while he tugs off her boots and jeans. He tosses her shirt in the laundry, hangs her bra on the rack in her narrow closet, folds her jeans. He’s so careful with her things, an odd sight when he so typically rips the clothes right off her. He’s so good to her, taking care of her like this after she’s been terrible to him the last few days.

She can feel tears pooling in her eyes and wishes she could blame them all on exhaustion. (How can she even have any tears left at this point?) “Are we okay?” she asks, her voice coming out hoarse.

He stalls, his hands still pressing her jeans into a flat square, and turns his head to face her. “Jem,” he begins and the way he says the familiar endearment tips her over the edge.

He’s there in a heartbeat, kneeling beside the bed and clutching her to his chest.

Her exhaustion must finally catch up with her, because the next thing she knows she’s gasping awake out of a dream she can’t remember.

“I got you,” Grant says, his hand tightening around one of hers. He’s sitting next to the bed, blinking away sleep as he awkwardly reaches for her face with his free hand.

The windows in her room stay closed whenever they’re in flight, but she hasn’t been back other than to change since the morning they boarded the train. She opened them then to see the Italian countryside while she dressed for her first undercover mission - was it really only the day before yesterday that she was so excited, listening to Skye’s laugh when she asked her which shoes would be most appropriate for her cover?

Jemma draws in a wet, shaky breath as she forces her eyes away from the bright blue sky. The arm she has across Grant’s chest is partially numb and it hurts where he’s rubbing feeling back into her knuckles, but she’s not about to pull away.

“Did you sleep down there?” she asks.

He smiles, tucking some hair behind her ear. She can feel the dried tear tracks running down her temple where his warm skin touches hers.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone.” He lifts her hand to deposit a brief kiss that's sharp along her nerve endings.

He may be telling the truth, but not the whole truth. He could just as easily have stayed with her _in_ the bed as out of it and they both would’ve been more comfortable. She can only think of two reasons he might have chosen the floor: that it’s a better position from which to defend against attack, or that she wouldn’t let go of him and he couldn’t get into the bed because of how they were arranged. As either option would leave one of them embarrassed, she lets him get away with his fib.

She should check on Skye; she has no idea how long it’s been since she last saw her. The clock hanging directly between her windows says it’s nearly noon Triskelion time, but Jemma doesn’t know when Grant pulled her from the lab. And, come to think of it, she has no way of knowing how long it was between her leaving the medpod and him coming for her. The state she was in, she might’ve fallen asleep on her feet.

She doesn’t move to get up though, just holds Grant’s gaze as his touch brings feeling slowly and painfully back into her arm. She can see him gearing up to say something, but heads him off.

“Are we okay?” she asks hastily.

Something unidentifiable flickers in his eyes and his hands tense.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I was thinking the last few days. I don’t care that you left, I really don-” He cuts her off with a kiss, warm and full and sorrowful. His arms wrap around her, pulling her up while he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. She’s not sure when, but surely before he kissed her, her hand twisted in his shirt, pulling him closer to her. Her other hand joins it now, his warmth easing some of the pain still lancing through her shoulder.

Grant isn’t the sort of man to cry, at least not that she knows, but the way he kisses her feels somehow like he is - the turn of his lips and the hands that cling to her like a sobbing child and the deep wrinkles in his forehead when he presses it to hers.

“I’m sorry,” he says, with more emotion than a simple return to the specialist rotation calls for. “I’m so sorry.”

They sit there, wrapped around each other for a long time, long enough that her bare back starts to feel chilled and she decides it’s time to move.

She pushes him just far enough away that she can level him with a serious stare. This is _important_. “Are we?” 

That something flickers in his eyes again, quicker than before. When it’s gone, he smiles and again tucks that uncooperative lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” he says thickly. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

This isn’t finished. There was more to the last few days than a simple agreement can fix, but she thinks they’ve gotten the worst of it out. The rest can wait until they’re both feeling more themselves.

She pulls her legs up to her chest and around him so she can slide off the bed. “Go to sleep,” she orders as she shakes out the jeans he folded last night. “I just want to check on Skye and then I’ll be back.” She turns around as she pulls them on, knowing how he likes that particular view.

“So in about nine hours?” he asks fondly, but there’s a yawn in his voice that cuts the sarcasm.

She glances over her shoulder and finds him already spread out over the length of her bed, his eyes blatantly taking in every inch of her. Once dressed, she bends over him to deposit a kiss to his temple and feels his lips curl in a grin.

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you,” he returns softly as she’s closing the door.

She pauses there momentarily, poised between leaving him and going to Skye. The sadness, the near resignation in his voice, she can blame on his tiredness, but there’s a tight pain in her chest, like the earlier numbness in her arm, and that has nothing to do with exhaustion. She’s certain, suddenly, that if she doesn’t go back in there, grab onto Grant and never let him go, someone will steal him away.

She shakes herself and hurries for the stairs. It’s perfectly normal to feel fear of losing one’s loved ones after the events of the last few days. Grant will be there when she returns or, if it _does_ take her longer than expected - not nine hours, surely - they’re in mid-flight. He’ll be easy enough to find and they can finish their talk over lunch.

 


	15. yes men

Grant watches Jemma leave through the window, but that doesn’t mean he misses the gleeful look on Skye’s face.

“ _Sooo_ ,” she says when he finally looks back to her. “I saw some smiles there.”

He pushes off from the doorway, well aware that the grin is still on his face. “Yes, Skye, everyone’s happy you’re okay.”

“No. _No_ , those were not ‘Skye’s okay’ smiles, those were ‘my honey’s gonna give me some good lovin' tonight’ smiles.”

“ _Skye_.” She’s not _wrong_ , but he doesn’t exactly like his sex life being a topic of conversation. And neither does Skye, for that matter. Usually she’d gag if they so much as held hands.

She holds up her hands, laughing. “Hey, I’m just happy that my near-death experience helped the two of you get your heads out of your asses.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. “Were we that obvious?”

“Only to _everyone_.” Her smile fades a little. “But you’re good now, right?”

 _Now_ , yes, they’re absolutely good, and during the weeks of Skye’s recovery, he’s been staunchly clinging to that fact. His dreams like to remind him how full of shit he is though.

He doesn’t know the specifics of the uprising, so the circumstances are always different. Sometimes John’s there, ordering Jemma to work on his cure. Sometimes the team’s dead around them. Sometimes it’s just them, alone; he thinks there might be bars between them. He’s never seen her face so full of anger and hate and disappointment, but he sees it all the time now in his sleep.

“Yeah,” he says, keeping his lovesick smile firmly in place, “we’re good.”

Skye grabs his hand to squeeze it. She’s lost some muscle in her weeks on bed rest, they’ll have to work on that. “Good. I’m really glad, scary Ward.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You have got to stop calling me that.”

Her mouth twists up on one side. “Fitz told me you opened the Cage’s outer door in _mid-flight_ to get intel on Centipede when Coulson was captured.”

He smiles, but manages to keep the worst of the cruelty hidden. “Yeah. Did he also tell you who actually _opened_ the door? It was my plan, but Jemma’s the one who hit the button.” She was so damn proud of herself too. It took all his self-control not to kiss her right there in front of Hand and all her men.

Skye’s eyes move up like she’s considering carefully. “Okay, so, scary Ward and _less_ scary Ward. Totally still works.”

Grant’s not really sure what to say to that - he figures that he’s still the scarier one, after all the blood draws Jemma’s done, is a win - so he lets it pass. (Besides, he does like hearing people call Jemma by his name.) “Jemma’s still working on your blood samples, so how about I drag Fitz back here and we play some crazy eights?”

“ _Or_ ,” Skye offers brightly, “you could help me sneak out.”

“Or I could have sex ever again in my life.”

Skye’s smile falls into a pout. “Fine. I see who you love most on this plane.”

“You better believe it,” he says as he goes to grab Fitz.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _“…and then he just drove away. I- I was so angry.”_ The woman on the screen grabs another tissue from the box. She’s on her second now. _“Have you heard anything yet? Is he going to be okay?”_

_“Not yet, Mrs. Fletcher, we’ll tell you the second we know.”_

She nods and blows her nose again.

Jemma swipes furiously past the woman to the next video in the sequence. It’s a man in an identical interrogation room to the first. He’s not crying. He’s staring at his hands, cuffed to the table, like they belong to someone else.

 _“I killed her,”_ he says. _“She didn’t even tell me to do it. She just wanted her to shut up and I- I killed my Rosie.”_ He is, from the police reports in this area, a small time criminal. Public disturbances, petty theft. There is more than one suspicious death of a former member of his “crew” which the police would like to pin on him, but there’s simply not enough evidence. Seeing him now, mourning the death of his wife, Jemma has trouble believing he’s killed before.

“You shouldn’t torment yourself.”

The tablet goes clattering to the lab bench as Jemma leaps away, her hand going to her chest.

“Oh,” she says, forcing her tone to polite surprise, “Lady Sif.”

“I apologize,” Sif says, returning her sword to her back. It appears Jemma wasn’t the only one given a fright there.

She waves the apology off. “It’s all right. Grant’s the same.” Against her will, her eyes move back to the darkened tablet screen. “I made him start knocking when he entered, to avoid accidents.”

“I will do the same then,” Sif says, voice gentling.

Jemma might nod, might offer her thanks for the consideration or even white lies that it’s not necessary, she’s not sure. Thoughts run through her head like water, one after another with no sign of stopping. She tries not to examine any of them too deeply.

“It is late.”

Jemma blinks, attention drawn back to Sif. “Didn’t Fitz show you how to set up the rollaway?” His distraction would be understandable, but it’s bad enough Sif is forced to bunk in the _Cage_ , the least they can do for her is make her stay as comfortable as possible.

A smile tugs at Sif’s mouth as she steps closer. “I meant, is it not late for you to be awake? You mortals require more sleep than we Aesir.”

Something cold and sharp twists through the cascading thoughts. It must show on her face, because Sif pulls back.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean-” She looks away with a sigh. Even in her armor, she is graceful as she leans a hip against Fitz’s lab bench. “You will be of more use tomorrow if you are rested.”

Jemma nods, imitating Sif’s posture. “I know. But I’ve worked for days on end before and-”

“This is not like that.” There’s something so sympathetic in Sif’s voice that it stops all Jemma’s protests. “I know what it is to be driven, to know the weight of many rests on your shoulders alone.”

Jemma shakes her head. “There’s no one counting on me.” Fitz is the one who can fix the collar, all Jemma can do is assist - and that only if he doesn’t kick her out.

“Grant is.”

She flinches. No one’s spoken his name in her presence since Coulson took her aside to tell her what happened.

“I will do everything within my power to see him returned to you,” Sif vows with a weight that lifts Jemma’s spirits, but only momentarily. “But-”

“But Grant is one of the best,” Jemma finishes, finally putting to words all the things no one will say. Around her, at least. “He is an incredibly dangerous man, whose actions are not currently under his control. Stopping him won’t be easy.” She meets Sif’s eyes almost defiantly. “I do know what my husband does for a living, Lady Sif.”

There’s some respect in Sif’s posture when she nods in acceptance. “Then,” she presses, “that fear is not what keeps you here when you should be abed?”

Jemma looks to the tablet again. “If I go to bed,” she says, her voice much weaker than it was a moment ago, “he won’t be there. And that’s not abnormal, we don’t often go to bed together, but …” She sighs heavily. “Tonight I won’t be able to forget why he’s not and where he is and what he’s-” Words fail her.

It’s easier to focus on work. Not that she was doing well at that prior to Sif’s arrival. She meant to access the files on the men under Lorelei’s influence in an effort to better understand what was happening physiologically. How she ended up on the interviews, she has no idea.

Sif’s hand is a heavy weight on her shoulder. She offers no empty reassurances, no lies about what tomorrow might bring. Jemma appreciates that as much as she appreciates the comfort she _does_ offer.

They share a long look, during which Jemma wonders if Sif might understand her position better than she lets on. It breaks when Sif looks over her head.

“Hey,” Fitz says from the back door. Jemma forces a smile as she faces him. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Ready for the next phase?” Jemma asks. Fitz has had to pause his work on the collar or risk damaging it further by moving ahead too fast. If he’s prepared to move on, it might give Jemma something to do other than worry.

“Actually,” he says with a grin, “Skye wants to play crazy eights. Needs at least three.” His eyes move to Sif. “Better with four.”

“Crazy eights?” Sif echoes. Her confusion is, frankly, adorable.

“It’s a card game,” Jemma explains. Cards sound like a fantastic idea. It’s often odd groupings of them playing with Skye, so Grant’s absence won’t be quite as obvious. Perhaps she’ll even be able to forget, however briefly, the cause for the pain in her chest. “We can teach you,” she offers over her shoulder as she moves to follow Fitz. “It’s not difficult.”

She’s not sure Sif’s coming until she hears, “I warn you, mortals, I will defeat you soundly.”

Skye is sitting up in bed, the cards already arranged on the lap table Coulson dug out of storage for her. Jemma gives her a fond glare and gathers them all up for a good shuffle.

“Damn,” Skye says half-heartedly. “Thought I had you that time.”

Jemma settles back in one of the folding chairs that’s been brought in, doing an overhand shuffle while she waits for the others. Fitz somehow fell behind and is trying to explain the game to Sif.

“It will be easier once we’re set up,” Jemma says, both to assure Sif and to chastise Fitz for confusing her unnecessarily.

“Sif’s playing?” Skye asks eagerly. “Awesome, that means we really _can_ play crazy eights.”

Jemma drops the shuffled cards on the lap table with a little more flourish than necessary. “You only need three, Skye.”

“Exactly,” Fitz says. Something about his tone draws Jemma’s attention back to him. He’s still standing in the doorway and gives her a one-shouldered shrug. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

From the corner of her eye she sees Skye pull something from beneath the lap table. An ICER, she realizes as it fires. She doesn’t have time for anything else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant frowns down at Skye’s body on the floor of the lab. She’ll have a hell of a headache when she wakes up, but it couldn’t be helped. His ICER ran out getting them here and he wasn’t about to trust Fitz to hit her instead of him. Choking her out was the only option.

“Jemma let her out of bed?” he asks.

“Nah,” Fitz says, voice somewhat dreamy, his eyes still on Lorelei. He didn’t once look away from her while Grant was fighting Skye, which says a lot since she landed a lucky shot and had him crashing into Fitz’s side of the lab. “I did. She’s been stable for days, Jemma was just being paranoid.”

“Uh huh,” Grant says. He has some trouble believing that Jemma would ever let that happen. “She with Coulson and May?”

“Nah,” Fitz says again. Lorelei is practically preening under the attention and even though Grant knows she doesn’t give a damn about him, it riles him up. He laughs humorlessly; him and Fitz, always falling for the same women.

He steps over Skye and crosses the lab, purposefully leaning himself against the table Fitz is practically draped over. “So where is she?” he presses.

“If I didn’t know better,” Lorelei says, “I’d think you were worried for your wife.”

“I am,” Grant says honestly. “Jemma’s one of the smartest women on the planet and she has ample reason to want us stopped. I’d like to know where she is.”

“Sleeping,” Fitz says. “In the medpod. She was so worried about you, we had to use an ICER on her. Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting Railgun - I made those,” he adds proudly for Lorelei’s benefit.

Grant rolls his eyes and heads into the back. Sure enough, Jemma’s laid out in Skye’s place. He’s got enough experience with hospitals to know the readings on the monitors are all good. She’s fine. Secure.

Lorelei’s hands cup his shoulders. Her body presses against his back. “Hm. I thought she’d be prettier in person.”

Grant examines the door. The quarantine lock can only be triggered by Jemma or Coulson, so he’ll have to find a different way to keep her inside.

“Fitz,” he says, figuring an engineer might have a few thoughts on that, “door?”

“Ah, right! Hold on.” He jumps into motion, ducking into one of the supply rooms and digging through boxes.

“You could simply kill her,” Lorelei says mildly.

Grant faces her. “Would you like me to?”

She considers it for long seconds, or wants him to think she is. She’s playing with him, hoping he’ll fight her on it - or just enjoying that he’s not. It doesn’t matter what game she’s playing, he’ll follow where she leads.

“Not yet,” she says finally. Her hands trace the planes of his chest. “You wanted to keep her, isn’t that what you said? But you’ve always known you can’t. She’ll never forgive you; better to let her go.” She pouts prettily, shooting another glance Jemma’s way. “I think she should know just _who_ is killing her, don’t you?”

“Got it!” Fitz says. He shoves between them - shoves Grant more than Lorelei - and puts a long, metal pipe along the door track, holding it in place.

“That’s it?” Grant asks.

“Well I could’ve built a robot to put it down, but I thought we were kind of pressed for time. The others’ll be back any minute.”

That in mind, Grant quickly fills Fitz in on the plan, amending it where necessary now that they know where the collar is - and isn’t _that_ good luck? Things might actually be going their way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant tosses the fake passports back into his duffel. He’ll need a new drop box in the area now that Lorelei’s compromised this one, but that’ll have to wait until he gets out on his own. Which, given what he’s been through, probably won’t be for a while. He’ll be lucky to get out of the others’ sight for five minutes altogether in the next month.

“Why do you have two?”

He tenses at the sound of Jemma’s voice. “One’s yours,” he says, managing to come off sounding casual.

She blinks at him over the coffee table and bends to pick up both passports. He tries and fails not to watch her delicate hands flip the pages, not to examine the way her expression morphs as she reads the alias he chose for her.

“I’m younger,” she says.

He was more expecting her to have trouble with the middle name _Myrtle_ , but okay. “You look younger,” he says. “Than you are, I mean. Might as well capitalize on that for a cover.”

“This makes me too young to rent a car,” she points out.

The excuse he came up with at the time - _that’s why she has a husband who can_ \- sits coldly in the back of his mind. He can’t say it. It would make her feel better, let her know they’ll be okay, but he can’t. He can’t let her think that way.

Instead he shrugs awkwardly and bites his tongue.

She sets the passports carefully back down, as if they absolutely _need_ to sit at exactly the same angle as before on the stack of cash. “We’ll reach the Hub in an hour,” she says. “I’ve already briefed the doctors-”

“Great.” He refused to let her treat him. It makes sense, enough that she was ready to offer a real doctor in her place before he even reached the lab, but that didn’t stop it hurting her. Doesn’t stop it hurting her _now_ , either.

She nods, worries her lip like she wants to say more. He’s grateful when she walks away.

He waits until he hears her door close behind her to smooth his hands over his face. God, this is a mess.

“She was wrong.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grant bites out, dropping his hands away. When did Fitz get so quiet? For that matter, when did Grant get so caught up in his own shit that _Fitz_ could sneak up on him?

“Lorelei,” Fitz goes on placidly, shining an apple on his shirt. “She was wrong when she said Jemma won’t forgive you.”

Grant’s heart freezes and he tries to remember what _exactly_ Lorelei said that Fitz might have heard. That bitch knew everything - John, HYDRA, his freaking marriage - she could’ve blown his cover wide open anytime. He’s just lucky the collar keeps her quiet instead of only neutralizing her powers.

Fitz sits down heavily across from him and looks over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to be listening in. “I will deny this to my dying day, but you’re not so bad. So I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: Jemma’s the nicest person in the world.”

Grant can’t help it, he laughs. “Yeah, I figured that out in the first five minutes.”

Fitz doesn’t even crack a smile. “So you know she’s not gonna hold this against you. There’s nothing for her to forgive.” He takes a big bite, giving himself time to think over what he’s gonna say next. Grant tries not to squirm while he waits. He’d really rather not be having this conversation. “I’m not gonna pretend I understand what you’re going through - what you went through - but you’ve still got Jemma. Don’t screw that up.”

He takes another dramatic bite as stands to leave, only to half-turn back at the last second, completely ruining his exit. “Also, I’m not sure I ever said this to you before, but I _do_ make most of your weapons. You break her heart and every gun you lay hands on again is gonna jam.”

“Good to know.”

That gets a smile out of Fitz and Grant instantly regrets it. He waits until Fitz is downstairs before he zips up the duffel and heads for his bunk, only to pause in the middle of the hallway. He can hear muffled crying, but it’s not coming from Jemma’s room. He presses a palm to Skye’s door, glad Jemma’s at least got someone.

He wants, more than almost anything, to go in there and take Skye’s place. To hold her and tell her everything’s all right, they’re okay. He forces himself away from Skye’s bunk and to his own. He just barely manages to drop the duffel instead of throwing it in a tantrum.

He sinks to his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands, shutting out the world. His subconscious conjures up the image of Jemma, fear in her eyes when she looked at him. That’s not a dream, it’s a memory. She was _scared_ in that brief second before Sif confirmed Lorelei’s spell was broken. And that was her still loving him, how much worse is it gonna be when she hates him?

Furious, he opens his eyes to pull the duffel closer to him. He fishes Jemma’s - Jennifer Myrtle’s - passport out. He’s still her husband, no matter what happens, and that means taking care of her. So he’ll break her heart now, and hope that makes it less painful for the both of them when the time comes.

 


	16. end of the beginning

Jemma isn’t paying much attention to the level eights arriving, but it’s impossible to miss that voice. “I’ll follow in a sec, gotta say hi to my favorite biochemist.”

She keeps her back to the door to hide her smile, but sets aside Skye’s newest blood sample in anticipation of the heavy arm that wraps around her shoulders, tugging her into John’s side.

“Hey there.”

“John,” she says fondly, turning into his embrace for a real hug.

He squeezes her tight before gripping her shoulders to hold her at arm’s length. His eyes travel up and down, narrowing on her stomach. “Still no grandkids, huh?”

“ _John_.”

“What? I’m not gonna live forever and I wanna bounce some babies on my knee before the end.”

She pushes him firmly away. “Don’t even start. You are _not_ dying. _Ever_.” She turns back to her work. “You’re too obstinate.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that your polite way of saying I’m a tough old bastard?”

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. “Yes,” she confesses and is rewarded with a firm slap to her back.

“Atta girl.” He leans against the table, his smile growing serious. “How you doing?”

It’s not that she wasn’t expecting it, but she rather hoped it would wait until after the meeting upstairs. “Keeping busy.” It feels like a lie, though it isn’t one. She’s been using the hunt for answers regarding the GH-325 as an excuse to avoid her troubles with Grant.

The were doing so _well_ during Skye’s recovery but then that Lorelei woman and … Grant can barely look at her.

John’s hand kneads her shoulder comfortingly. “This is a hard life, does a number on relationships.” His mouth pulls up at the corners. “I know he doesn’t seem like the type, but I always figured my boy must’ve fallen head over heels the second he met you to go through with it like that.” He taps the counter with his fist, the same way Grant often does. “I’m glad he has you, but you just remember, you’ve got people too. Fitz. Trip. Hell, even me. I’m not exactly good for the girl talk, but you wanna drown your sorrows, I’m here for you. I know a great little hole in the wall in Kiev. We might have to shoot a guy, but the chicken wings are excellent.”

She laughs and wipes at her eyes, though she isn’t crying. “Thank you, John. I appreciate it. I doubt I’ll be taking you up on it ... but thank you.”

He leaves with a light slap to her shoulder; he has that meeting to get to. She’s glad their assault on the Clairvoyant will include John and Trip. She knows any agent would do their utmost to watch Grant’s back, just as he would watch theirs, but with John and Trip it’s a personal thing. They would lay down their lives to see him home to her safely.

She only hopes they don’t have to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you need anything?” Hand asks, taking the seat beside Jemma’s in the empty conference room and swinging the chair so they’re facing each other. “Coffee? Tea? Sedative?”

Jemma’s lips curl at the joke. Possible joke. She honestly can’t tell with Hand.

“I’m fine,” Jemma says. Her tightly clasped hands belie the statement and she imagines her complexion is much the same. Trip’s supportive hand didn’t leave her back until he saw her seated here. She must be quite pale.

“You just saw your husband shoot a defenseless man,” Hand says, her voice measured if slightly disbelieving.

Jemma takes a deep breath. She didn’t see it, not really. The footage from the Retrievers was dark in the poorly lit room and, for once, her focus was not on finding Grant amid the many bodies moving about on the situation room’s main screen. It was difficult to look away from the so-called Clairvoyant, the man who has terrorized her team for months, nearly killed two of them, mutilated poor Agent Peterson. And all of that while confined to that chair. Imagine what he could do outside of it. She shifts uncomfortably at the thought.

“He’ll be going before the review board,” Hand says, thinking her discomfort is over Grant. “You’ll be expected to give a statement, something as to his upstanding character. Coulson’s always been a soft touch, he’ll have a lot to say in his defense. And I’ll be there of course.”

“Really?” Jemma asks, shocked despite herself. As far as she knows, Hand has only had contact with Grant since his assignment to Coulson’s team. That’s three missions, counting this one now, and not a single one ended according to plan.

Hand’s mouth quirks up on one side in a truly warm, if terrifying, smile. “The Clairvoyant is responsible for the deaths of untold numbers of civilians as well as dozens of SHIELD agents. I’m not sorry to see him go.” She pats Jemma’s shoulder as she leaves.

Trip returns to the room once she’s gone, taking the seat across from Jemma and lacing his hands on the table. “What’d she say?”

“That she’ll be speaking in Grant’s defense before the review board.” She sighs heavily. If Grant is court marshaled, it will be a terrible blow when he’s already having so much trouble emotionally. “It was the rage. The berserker rage.” She rubs her hands furiously over her face. She _will not cry_.

“That happen a lot?” Trip asks carefully.

“No,” she says, dropping her hands to look him in the eye. “There was a method for keeping it under control, one we discovered almost immediately after his exposure. But it’s been so long since we last…” She trails off, her heart sinking further as she remembers just how long it’s been since Grant joined her in her bed. “He must have had a relapse.”

Trip nods thoughtfully, his eyes still fixed on her. He’s watching for signs of trouble, as if she’s going to break down right here. Thirty minutes ago he was teasing her, offering to beat Grant up for neglecting her; he didn’t mean it seriously, only as a way to distract her from her worry as they watched the op unfold. Now he’s as somber as she’s ever seen him.

“We’ve got a few hours before they’ll get back,” he says finally. “Anything you wanna do while we wait?”

Skye’s blood work weighs on the back of her mind. She would like very much to have a lie down and try to pretend none of this is happening - not Lorelei or the Clairvoyant or any of it. If she could wake up to discover her husband has snuck into her room to join her on her first field assignment, that would be lovely, but sadly she hasn’t quite cracked time travel yet and waking up to rediscover all that’s gone wrong will only put her in a foul mood.

“Work,” she says. “I brought something I was hoping to work on, but I’ll need a lab. Preferably one to myself.”

Trip grins. “Why, Jemma Ward, are you working on something of a clandestine nature?”

Having his good humor back lifts her own spirits quite nicely. “Perhaps I’m simply too used to Fitz, can’t share with anyone else anymore,” she teases with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Spoiled.” He rises. “Come on, I’m sure I can scare a few lab rats out of your way.”

 


	17. turn, turn, turn

Hand’s angry accusation hangs in the air. She’s laid out the crimes against Coulson quite nicely and Jemma might be convinced, were it not for one very important detail.

“’ _His specialist_ ’?” she echoes. “So you believe that Grant-”

Hand’s anger fades somewhat, overtaken by pity. _That_ Jemma does not like at all. “I’m sorry, but anyone could be-”

“My husband is not a traitor!” Jemma says. Her voice is perfectly level, but it’s risen to a degree that stalls all action in the strategy room. She can feel Trip standing behind her and hopes it’s in support, not readiness to pull her away. If she decides to strike Agent Hand, it would be nice to have a specialist to protect her from the fallout.

“Perhaps not,” Hand says carefully, though she’s plainly worried Jemma might be setting herself up for disappointment in that regard, “but Coulson could easily have manipulated him into shooting Nash. He’s had months to get a read on all of you and Coulson’s entire job prior to the battle of New York was manipulating uncooperative individuals into working with SHIELD. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to know which buttons to push.”

Jemma still doesn’t believe Coulson could be the Clairvoyant. He would never harm Skye and even if it was just a hunt for answers to his own resurrection, that wouldn’t explain the injuries Jemma treated in the wake of his abduction. Who would allow that done to them just for a _cover_?

But Coulson is not her priority right now, the rest of them are.

“So we’re agreed,” Jemma says, “that you have no way of knowing whether the team are all HYDRA and thus have no legitimate reason to murder them rather than simply subduing them?”

Hand’s eyes narrow dangerously and Jemma has the not-at-all comforting thought that this is the face no small number of people have seen just before their deaths.

“You’re right,” Hand says finally, and actually sounds somewhat relieved. “Take the plane and the crew. If they resist, use whatever force you deem necessary. We won’t sink to HYDRA’s level by killing indiscriminately, but we won’t die foolishly either.”

It’s a small victory - with the emotional state Grant’s in, it’s unlikely he’ll surrender, but she can only hope the others will convince him. She’s done all she can from here.

And, with that thought, her muscles feel suddenly weak. She wavers on her feet, but Trip is there at her back before it can become obvious to anyone else.

“Let’s get you a seat, huh?” he says and pulls her away from Hand to a corner of the room from which she can see everything - and hope one of those things won’t be her own husband’s death.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Jem!” Grant gasps out the moment she comes into view. She’s crying, her face red and tears streaming freely down her cheeks, but she’s _alive_. At the sound of his voice, she breaks away from Fitz to run into his arms.

It hurts, how tight she holds him, probably would on any day but after the fight he had earlier, it makes him wince. He hides it in her neck, too happy to know she’s safe and whole to care about anything but her.

“I’m sorry,” she says into his neck, the sound vibrating through his skin. “I’m so, so sorry.”

It must be awkward for her, hugging him while he’s still got his tac vest on, but he doesn’t let go. If anything, he pulls her closer to him, enjoying her familiar curves beneath his hands, and the faint scent of roses that always lingers in her hair.

“It’s okay,” he says, resisting the urge to lift her into his arms only because he’s not sure he _can_ right now. Eight months they’ve been living on the Bus together, and HYDRA had to choose the minute he was half a world away to come out of the shadows? He has no idea who the men he killed clearing the way for Skye were loyal to, but he _really_ hopes they were HYDRA. The organization might be saving John’s life, but Grant wants a little payback for the worry that’s been tearing at him for the last few hours.

That in mind, he squeezes her a little tighter. “You’re okay,” he says, burying his face in her neck. His back is screaming at him to straighten up, but he doesn’t care. He’s not letting go of Jemma for anything.

“No,” she says tearfully, pushing away. His muscles thank her, but he feels like she’s tearing part of him away with her. “It’s not …” Her face crumples beneath the tear tracks. One of her hands hovers over his chest like somehow she can will him to understand.

Grant’s seen Jemma at a loss for words a lot during their marriage - he’s actually very proud of how easily he can bring her to that point - but it’s never been like this, with her too devastated by whatever’s on her mind to put it to words. The fear is back, stronger now. Skye’s behind him, has been with him the whole time, so she’s fine - but the others? He has a vague impression that they were with Jemma when he finally found her, but he was so caught up in her that he honestly can’t remember who, exactly, was there.

His hands tighten around her ribs as he takes his eyes off her, and at the same moment she tries to turn. May and Fitz are at the wall, where Jemma was before she noticed him. He can’t see Trip, but he can hear him yelling - angry, _furious_. Grant’s worry morphs into something else entirely as Coulson steps into his field of vision, cutting him off from the sight of John - smiling, cocky as all hell, and _chained_ \- being led past with the other prisoners.

“Grant,” Coulson begins, and that makes it easy. It’s easy to be heartbroken when everyone expects him to be, easier to be shell-shocked when he actually is. He meets Trip’s eyes through the flood of prisoners, sees a hurt there that’s so different from what he’s feeling.

It’s laughable, really. A few hours ago, Grant threw away his own life for John’s secret and now, John’s done the same. He barely listens to Coulson’s explanation - Grant knows this story already - he’s too busy thinking about the next move. He obviously hasn’t been exposed, which means John’s counting on him to get him out of this mess, and that … is not gonna end well for Grant.

The wall is cool and steady at his back - he doesn’t know when he stumbled into it, but he hasn’t let go of Jemma. His arm is wrapped around her back, holding her against him while his other hand is between hers. She’s fiddling with it, pressing kisses to his fingertips and knuckles and palm in between empty reassurances and his name, repeated over and over in a strangely comforting tone, for all she sounds heartbroken.

On impulse, he twists his hand to catch hers. Her ring shimmers almost painfully under the bright lights and her skin looks like porcelain against his, filthy and bloody from the fight. She’s so beautiful, so perfect.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, surprised by how rough it comes out. It would’ve been better if she was some pampered, trust fund brat he could hate. Then he wouldn’t even be worried about her in the midst of all this, wouldn’t have to care that he’s going to have to leave her, never see her again.

Her lips thin in a frown and warmth shimmers in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything, just wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his chest. He smoothes his hand over her hair, breathing deeply so he won’t forget her scent.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t.”

Grant stops on the broken ramp, his shoulders slumping. “Jem,” he says without turning to face her.

“No.” She marches down for the dual purposes of facing him and blocking his path. “I understand. I _do_ , but, Grant-”

“I _have_ to,” he says, the words tearing from him. The pain in his voice has her biting her tongue. “I- John, he-” He smiles sadly. “He was at our _wedding_.”

That doesn’t actually mean much, given the circumstances of their wedding, but she understands what he means. John was family and now he’s a traitor.

“I know. I know, but …” She rests a hand over his shoulder, over the scar he still carries from when he was shot last year - on John’s order, it turns out. “Please don’t do this to me.” She hates herself for saying it, for using her own selfishness against him like this, but there it is. “Hand was going to have you _killed_. She thought you were HYDRA.” He flinches at the word. “Everyone’s jumpy right now. There’s no telling who you’ll meet out there or if you’ll have time to make your case to them.”

His hands find her hips. “Jemma-”

“I can’t lose you. I can give you your space and let you run off on solo missions but I _cannot_ lose you, Grant.” That too makes him flinch, the reminder of the trouble they’ve been having the last few months. “I don’t blame you,” she begins weakly, but he kisses her before she can get any further. It’s not gentle, it’s rough and pained, full of all the emotions she saw on his face when Coulson told him just what John truly is. If she had any tears left, it would have her crying again.

“I have to do this,” he says into the bare space he puts between them when he finally pulls away. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but John … he saved my life and now he’s …”

Jemma nods. She won’t put to words all the things John is - traitor, murderer, _monster_ \- because Grant already knows. It must be killing him, having yet another father figure fail so utterly. And, she supposes, at least this one he can see brought to justice.

She grips the back of his neck tightly with one hand while the other laces with his, pressing the curve of her wedding ring into his skin. “You come back to me, Grant Ward.” She seals the order with a fierce kiss. “I love you.” She lets him go.

He hesitates and for a brief moment she hopes he’ll change his mind, but then he’s hugging her, pressing a kiss to her temple and hiding his face in her hair.

“If anything happens,” he whispers so softly she wouldn’t be able to hear if he wasn’t speaking directly into her ear. She knows that means he’s trying to be secretive, but she still tenses at the idea that he might not make it back. His grip on her tightens in response. “ _If anything happens_ , look under your mattress.” He kisses her temple again and holds her at arm’s length like he’s memorizing her face.

And then he leaves.

 


	18. providence

“Hey, Trip said you were up here.” Skye crouches next to Jemma in what little floor space there is in the bunk. “How you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, I imagine.” Her hands curl around the edge of the manila envelope in her lap.

“What’s that?” Skye asks, stopping just short of poking it.

“A gift from Grant.”

“Ooooooo. Dirty photos to keep you company while he’s gone?

Jemma smiles sadly. “No, nothing like that. It’s for if he doesn’t come back.” She knows he said only if something went wrong, but as if she was going to _wait_. She slips the passport out, the same one he pulled from his storage locker while under Lorelei’s control. Next comes a New York state driver’s license, a social security card, a credit card, and quite a lot of cash.

“ _Whoa._ ” 

“Exactly.”

Skye flips through the stack of bills. “This is … a lot.”

“He worries,” Jemma says.

“Yeah.” Skye tosses the bills back in her lap. “Well, if you do need it - which I’m not saying you will! - it’ll be a lot easier for you to pass as … Jennifer Myrtle?”

Jemma shrugs.

Skye shakes her head, but leaves it be for the moment. “Coulson ordered me to erase everyone’s identities. So, good news: none of us exist. Wooo.” She lifts her fists slightly above her head in a lame attempt at excitement. “Yeah, not so good, I know. He also wants me to take everyone’s badges. For safety. You know, since SHIELD is a terrorist organization now.” 

It’s not a surprise but … well. Jemma pulls her badge from her pocket. She’s been carrying it around for nearly ten years, almost her entire adult life. Letting it go feels like letting go of a part of herself.

“Grant still has his,” she says, fingering the embossing on the front face.

Skye worries her lip, but says nothing.

Tears sting at the corners of Jemma’s eyes, but she sniffs them back. It’s just a piece of metal. She hands it over.

Skye takes it between her hands, but doesn’t move to go. “You want some actual good news?”

“Desperately.” Jemma’s not expecting it to be truly good, but then Skye smiles.

“I think I might be dating Fitz.”

“ _What!_ ” Jemma tosses the envelope onto her bed and scoots around so she can sit facing Skye. “Tell me everything.” That actually _is_ good news, especially since May and Coulson are seemingly on the outs. No one’s clued Jemma in to the specifics as yet, but she’s gathered that May was accused of being the Clairvoyant for a brief period. Jemma can’t imagine the level of betrayal that must have been felt on either side or that a simple clearing up of the facts has made it any easier for them to face one another.

Skye settles on the floor. “Okay, I don’t know, but we’ve been kind of flirting for a while-”

“Really? You two? I never would have guessed from the countless hours he spent in the medpod.”

Skye sticks out her tongue. “ _Anyway_ , I kissed him when we were splitting up in the Hub. It just seemed like a good idea, you know? Might not have another chance.”

Jemma might squeal a little at that. “Did he say anything?”

“Not really? But he smiled all dreamy-like. And then later, while you and the scary Ward were doing dirty things in that lab-”

“I was tending his injuries.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure you _tended his injuries_ very well. Fitz and I were talking and he held my hand, which I figure is like the Fitz version of making out. So I think we’re dating. Maybe.”

For the first time in days - possibly weeks - Jemma feels herself really smile. “You should probably ask him about that, just to be sure.”

Skye falls back against the floor. “I know, but it’s so hard. What am I supposed to say?”

“‘Does you returning my hurried kiss mean you reciprocate my romantic feelings’ seems appropriate.”

Skye lifts herself up on her elbows, her eyebrows cocking at an odd angle. “You are so lucky you got an arranged marriage. That was horrible.” She pushes up all at once. “Speaking of family obligations, I didn’t think of it before, but is not existing gonna screw that up? Isn’t your marriage to Grant important or something?”

“It’s a symbolic thing, mostly,” Jemma says, waving off the notion. “I honestly don’t know what Grandfather got out of it that was so important - probably he just wanted to have a little control over my life - but the wheels would have been set in motion long ago. Frankly, even if we’d refused to go through with it, the alliance between the Wards and Kanes probably wouldn’t have been altered drastically.”

“Kanes?” Skye asks.

“My mother’s family.”

“Right, right. Probably something I’d get if I actually had one of those.”

“Skye-”

She holds up her hands. “No. It’s cool. So I didn’t just nullify any multi-million dollar business deals, putting thousands of people out of their jobs?”

“No. The jobs are safe.”

“Oh, good.” She slaps her knees and makes to go. “So I’m just gonna hand over the badges to Coulson-”

“And talk to Fitz.”

“And avoid talking to Fitz.”

“ _Skye_.”

Skye waves as she hurries out the door. “I’ll do it eventually!”

Jemma shakes her head and moves to get up herself. She returns the envelope to where she found it, hoping to never see it again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant’s not actually surprised that Skye encrypted the hard drive, he’s more annoyed that these HYDRA techs they’ve got on loan can’t crack it.

“Well,” he sighs, “it’s a good thing you don’t need it then.” John wasn’t exactly impressed when Grant handed him a thumb drive along with the hard drive he convinced Skye to copy for them and, yeah, it wasn’t impressive then, but now that the hard drive’s useless? Grant’s kind of relieved he hasn’t spent the last few weeks breaking into his wife’s files for nothing.

Everything she’s done since the Guest House is on that drive, everything Raina should need to recreate the GH-325 and save John’s life. So Grant’s more than a little surprised to hear, “Looks like you’re gonna have to go back.”

He blinks, and blinks again. He was expecting a “good job” or a “smart thinking” or even a punch in the shoulder for being impertinent, not a “go back and face the wife you abandoned two days ago.”

“What?” he asks.

John turns to him. “You’re going back. To get that hacker to decrypt the drive.”

“You have the research,” Grant points out.

“Yeah, into the GH-325, but your little woman’s been doing a whole lot of other work these last few months.”

“What do you need the other stuff for?” Grant can feel his anger rising but for some reason can’t stop his voice from going with it. “Isn’t the GH-325 the whole _point_?”

“Well, yeah,” John laughs, not rising to the bait, “but why not have it all, right? And besides, this is exactly what you want: the chance to go back, fix your mistake.”

Grant bristles. He didn’t make a _mistake_ and they’ve been over that more than once since he freed John. Jemma would never work for HYDRA. Even if he had any thoughts to the contrary, Hand squashed those when she told him about her play to find out Jemma’s true loyalties. (She said she was _impressed with her courage_ ; it made shooting her in the gut a hell of a lot more satisfying.) Jemma was willing to die before working for HYDRA, it’s not gonna make much difference that Grant’s working for them - hell, it’ll probably make her hate them all the more.

He pushes down the rage that’s been brewing for days. He wasn’t going to bring her along just to watch her be broken into compliance, but here, in front of dozens of HYDRA soldiers and with Raina hanging on their every word, is not the place to remind John of that.

John steps in close, wraps a hand tight over Grant’s shoulder. “Listen,” he says softly - softly enough that Grant can see Raina straining to hear, “HYDRA wants it all. HYDRA wants your girl. You go back, you get ‘em both, make the powers that be happy. Everyone’s gunning for position right now, this’ll help us move up.”

Grant nods tightly. It’s clear, from the grip John’s got on him, that argument won’t be taken well. He’ll get the damn research if John wants it so much, but he’s not bringing Jemma anywhere near HYDRA, and John - and HYDRA - can just accept that when the time comes.

“Good,” John says, finally letting him go. “You’ll need a good story. They might’ve heard about the Fridge by now.”

Grant nods, though he doesn’t exactly like what’s about to happen. He steps closer to one of the columns, just in case he needs the support. Raina’s still standing there, looking thoroughly confused. It doesn’t do much for his mood, especially not when the first blow lands.

After years of living with Christian, years of Academy training, and years in the field, it’s all he can do not to lift a hand in defense. But it’s good. The pain helps him focus, and, if he’s a little more beat up, he won’t have the temptation of spending a last night with Jemma. A blow to his head has him staggering into the column and leaves stars across his vision. He can feel blood on his cheek. One of his cuts has opened, Jemma’s gonna be pissed.

“I do hope,” a cold voice cuts through the fog in his mind, “you aren’t damaging him too severely.” There’s something about it that’s so _Jemma_ that Grant’s sure he’s hallucinating, creating it out of thin air because he can’t get his thoughts off her for more than five minutes.

He forces himself to stand straight and blinks through the spots in his vision. The HYDRA soldiers have all come to attention, but the man in the doorway doesn’t seem to care about any of them. He’s looking straight at Grant.

“I’d prefer him not to be mutilated, she does seem to like him as is.”

That last hit had to have hurt him more than he thought because it _looks_ and _sounds_ like the man who every agent in the room is quaking in fear of is Edmund Kane.

“Ed!” John says warmly. “I didn’t know you were coming down.”

Kane’s attention remains fixed on Grant, making him feel even more unsteady that the blood rushing to his injuries. “Well, I wouldn’t have to if my granddaughter had been returned safely to me.” He finally looks around, his eyes going immediately to every dirty, dusty corner. “I do hope she isn’t _here_.”

“No, no. She’s safe,” John says quickly, “she’s-”

“I was not speaking to you,” Kane says coldly. He looks away from John in cool dismissal, fixing Grant with that icy stare again. “I entrusted Jemma’s well-being to _you_ , young man. Where is she?”

Grant presses his fingertips against the brick of the column, using it as a touchstone while he gapes. He’s still having a little bit of trouble with this whole thing, but he’s got the horrible idea he understands perfectly. “What?” he asks, looking to John.

John laughs and comes in close again. “ _Son_ ,” he says tightly, “answer the man. It’s not a good idea to keep one of HYDRA’s _oldest living heads_ waiting.”

Yeah, he does understand and he is really, _really_ glad for the column. Between the pain and all the parts of his life that are swiftly realigning into place, he’s not sure he could stand without it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*


	19. the only light in the darkness

“What is your full, legal name?” Koenig asks.

Grant’s lungs want him to take shallow breaths, but he keeps the rhythm even and deep, knowing it’ll mess with the sensors. “Grant Douglas Ward.”

“List any family you have.”

 _“I welcomed you into my family,” Kane said once they were alone, seated across from each other in a perverted attempt at a cordial meeting. “I trusted you with my most valuable possession. And you_ left her behind _.”_

“Jemma,” Grant says.

Koenig lifts an eyebrow. “That’s all?”

“All that matters.” In the back of his mind, Thomas screams. Christian laughs.

Koenig doesn’t like that answer, so Grant gives him a real one. Mostly real. He throws in a sister just to screw with the baseline. Koenig notices - how could he not with the way Grant’s entire body is aching - but lets it go. The only alternative is to postpone the test until he’s all healed up and this guy’s too eager to have all of them cleared to do that, even if it would be safer.

There are a couple more non sequitur questions, things meant to throw him off before the real ones start. And then, “Have you ever met Alexander Pierce?”

“No.” He wants, suddenly, to know Jemma’s answer to that question. Her grandfather definitely has, but has she? Did he come to Christmas dinner when she was a kid? Send her birthday cards?

_“You won’t understand this, not until you’re much older, but a man must secure his legacy. Jemma is my only grandchild.” He sighs. “I had high hopes for her mother, but she turned out to be such a disappointment. I never even brought her into the fold._

_“But Jemma,” he says with a smile, “she has potential. Always has. Which is why it was arranged for you to marry her, so that she would have the proper … incentive to fulfill it.”_

“SHIELD has fallen,” Koenig says and Grant has to fight to keep his real feelings on the fall of the organization that left John to die, left _him_ to die, from showing, “so why are you here?”

 _“I don’t care about John Garrett or his plans. The only thing I care about - the only thing_ you _will care about if you value your life, is Jemma. The preparations for this day began long before the arrangement which entrusted her to your care and I will not see those plans ruined because you have proven to be less than worthy.”_

That’s the right answer, the easy answer. Koenig won’t think twice about Grant coming back to the team for his wife, but the words get caught in his throat.

“Agent Ward?” Koenig asks, and Grant doesn’t miss the way his hand moves under the desk. “Why are you here?”

_“This is your chance to redeem yourself, do what you were brought into HYDRA to do: bring her to me.”_

“Jemma,” Grant says with a shrug. “I know it’s not the party line, but I came back for Jemma.”

Koenig smiles. “Yeah, understandable.” His hand comes out from under the desk - with _out_ a gun. He opens his mouth to ask whatever question is next, but instead says, “For the record, she mentioned you first too when I asked her about family.”

He seems to like Grant after that show of marital devotion and the rest of orientation passes easily. Grant wishes everything else could be as simple as beating the mother of all lie detectors.

Jemma’s waiting for him when he comes out. She pretends she’s not, just passing through, but even with his minimal knowledge of Providence’s layout, Grant knows this area’s pretty out of the way.

“Worried about me?” he asks. He wants to reach for her, but the glass is still under his thumbnail. He leans against the wall instead, hoping she thinks he’s just taking the weight off his injuries.

“Always,” she says softly. The confession leaves him feeling cold. She takes his hand and he’d be grateful for her warmth if it wasn’t the one with the glass. “But you’re here. Safe.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, letting her pull him along and not caring when they fade into silence. She’s lost in her thoughts about something and so is he. They’re a perfect pair.

They reach a junction in the hallway and she spins on her heel to face him without letting go of his hand.

“When I get back, if you’re up to it, I’d like to try talking about … well, everything.”

“‘When you get back’?” he echoes. Fitz and Trip are further down the hall, carrying a crate into the hangar. He can’t complete his mission if she goes with the team.

“From the mission. In Portland?” She looks at him closely and brushes the backs of her fingers over a bruise on his temple. “You remember, don’t you?”

He catches her hand, running his glassless thumb over the familiar calluses. It would be so easy to make her to stay. A little feigned short-term memory loss and she wouldn’t dare leave him. Then he’d only have to find a way to convince her to leave before the others return. Without Fitz around to split her loyalty, it’d be easy. And then they’d be on their way back to Kane.

_“Do you really think Jemma will go along with this? With HYDRA?” he asked._

_Kane smiled like Grant had missed the punch line on a joke. “I think my granddaughter has been convinced of a great many compromises in her life. _” Grant flinched._ _“_ It may take time, but little by little we will bring her around, you and I.”_

Grant feels sick and touches her hair to anchor himself.

“Grant?” she presses.

_“I know you’ve grown attached. It’s only to be expected. And she loves you, it’s plain for anyone to see. That will make the work before us easier. She’ll be fighting herself as much as us, and that won’t last long. We’ll have her set up in her own private lab by the end of the year, mark my words. And you, Grant, will be able to keep your wife. A fine arrangement, if I do say so myself.”_

Keep her. When Lorelei said he knew he never could, she was echoing Grant’s words, words John said just a few months ago. And that wasn’t the first time either. When Grant asked about turning Jemma, John only said to keep her, that everything else would be taken care of. Grant never understood that before. He wishes he didn’t now.

“I’m fine,” he says, though it’s a lie and even Jemma can probably see that. He glances down the hall. “I just-”

Jemma steps closer into his space. “I know you’re worried, but I’ll be fine. I’m sure Trip remembers the numerous speeches you’ve given him in recent months regarding my safety.” She pats his chest and goes up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“No,” he says, catching her hips before she can step back. “Jemma, you _can’t go_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma is aware of many things. The way her skin tingles, urging her to wrap herself up in Grant now that they’re engaging in physical contact again. The others at the end of the hall, watching what they no doubt worry is a long overdue fight. But mostly she’s aware of Grant’s hands, too tight on her hips, and the way his eyes pull at the edges the way they only do when he’s struggling with the beserker rage.

She hasn’t even thought about it since Trip confronted her back at the Hub, but she certainly should have. Given the way the _last_ episode went, this won’t be good at all.

She carefully disengages his hands from her hips so that she can maneuver them around the corner, out of sight of the others. She wishes there was time for the only foolproof cure they know of - for a whole host of reasons not related to Grant’s well-being - but there just isn’t time, so she opts to keep close physical contact while she talks him down.

“ _Grant_ ,” she says, cupping his uninjured cheek in her hand. He leans into her palm.

“You can’t go,” he says again, but much of the heat has gone out of the statement. If anything, he seems almost frightened. He’s clutching one of her hands tightly between their chests like a security blanket.

“I have to. There are lives in danger and I have a duty to-”

“To who?” he asks quickly. “SHIELD’s gone.”

She was actually going to say she has a duty to protect people, to help them where others can’t, and his misunderstanding throws her off. She took an oath to SHIELD, yes, but that’s not the only oath she’s ever made. She made another one, a more important one - though she didn’t always think of it that way - to the man in front of her now.

“I will come back to you,” she promises. “There are no passports under your bed, so you had better get used to me hanging around.”

He doesn’t seem convinced by her attempt at lightening the mood. “If any HYDRA agents see you out there-”

“Aside from a single field office, there’s no SHIELD base within three hundred miles of Portland. Why would HYDRA even be there unless it was to recapture Daniels? In which case they’d be rather more keen on the super powered man than one measly biochemist.”

His hand tightens around hers. “And if they’re not? If they grab you? Will you repeat what you said at the Hub?”

It takes a moment for her to realize just what he’s referring to. “Hand told you,” she sighs. “Yes. I suppose I would.” It’s obviously not what he wants to hear so she quickly adds, “Just as I’m sure _you_ would. But I trusted you to go and now you have to do the same.”

It doesn’t help. If anything, it seems to make things worse.

“They’ll take you,” he says. The knuckles of his free hand trail down her cheek in a longing sort of way that draws an answering ache from between her thighs. She really doesn’t have time for that - and they should talk before doing anything of that sort, regardless.

“You don’t know that. Trip and Coulson will be there. And Fitz! Do you really think any of them would-”

“They will.”

He could keep her here forever with this, and she’s beginning to think that’s his goal. She lets her hand slide down to his chest, trying to create some distance or at least turn them to bring herself closer to the hall, but he won’t be moved. “And what makes you so sure?” she demands, more because she’s annoyed at how little effect her pushing has on him than because she means it. “When the world is in shambles and an energy-sucking maniac is on the loose and one of SHIELD’s top agents is hunting him, do you really think HYDRA would bother with me?”

“Yes.” He says it so definitively, it’s almost touching. He has such a high estimation of her value.

“Grant,” she laughs.

“Because those are my orders.”

His hands are tight on her hips again and she has the oddest idea that he’s trying to hold her in place. All the warmth being close to him usually leaves her with is gone, replaced by an icy chill that’s making her feel weak. Or maybe that’s the hollow in her chest. Her eyes remain fixed on his face but she’s aware of the corner behind him. The others were just around it, weren’t they? Only a few meters away?

It’s a silly thought to reassure herself with. Why would she need them when Grant is right here?

“What?” She’s not sure she actually speaks. It’s barely a breath and her lungs aren’t replacing it the way they should, like there’s not enough room inside her even though she feels empty.

“My orders,” he says slowly, “are to bring you in. They come from the top, Jem.” It sounds like an apology.

“Your-” She shakes her head and stumbles back. It occurs to her that he’s let her go - of course he has, he’s between her and the others - but the thought is quickly swallowed up by the myriad of others spinning through her brain. None of them make sense. She latches blindly onto the first she can put to words. “You were captured,” she says, hating that it sounds like a plea. “At the Fridge. They gave you the same option Hand gave Trip and me, so you took it to stay alive.”

He’s shaking his head.

“You pretended,” she insists, aware that her voice is rising, “to be one of them and they sent you-”

He reaches for her and she darts back. He looks like she’s hurt him. She almost wants to laugh. “You know how important John is to me.” A sob erupts from her - at the statement itself or the present tense, she can’t be sure. “He brought me into SHIELD.”

Jemma’s body feels wrong. It doesn’t feel like hers anymore. She’s grateful when it stumbles into a wall; it gives her some stability. “Help.” It doesn’t even sound like her voice.

Grant steps closer, looking truly fearful now, and she skitters back. It’s only the wall that keeps her from tripping over her own feet.

“Help!” she yells.

The others, thankfully, really are nearby still and come racing around the corner behind Grant. They’re confused by the lack of obvious danger and questions fly too rapidly for her to catch in her present state. She can feel May’s hands on her face, turning her gently, but her eyes remain fixed on Grant’s defeated expression. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her either, doesn’t seem to care at all for their friends.

A laugh that sounds more like another sob escapes her. Are they? Friends? She doesn’t know. If Grant is- is that _unthinkable thing_ , who else might be? And if they’re not, if everyone else in her life is exactly as they appear and it’s only the man she trusted with every part of her who is a liar and a traitor, can it really be said that he has any friends?

“Hey now,” Trip says soothingly. He cuts between her and Grant and she jumps back. Her head slams into the wall, but she barely feels the pain as terrified sobs threaten to overwhelm her.

Trip. Trip, who is kind and good and sweet and calls his mother after every mission, was another of John’s agents.

“It’s just me,” Grant says. She can’t see him, but she thinks he might be closer than he was before. “Jemma, it’s just me.”

“What is?” Coulson demands. “What is going on?”

Jemma can’t. Her throat is raw already from holding back - a cry, a sob, a scream - everything. She can’t force words around it to say what needs to be said. She turns away, towards the long, open expanse of hallway that doesn’t include her husband. May’s hand rests on her shoulder.

There’s a brief pause. She can feel Grant’s eyes on her just like she can still feel his fingers digging into her hips, his cheek under her palm, his hand tangled with hers. She wants to collapse, but it’s easier to keep steady against the wall.

The pressure of his gaze lifts away on a sigh. “Hail HYDRA.”

 


	20. nothing personal

Grant doesn’t answer all of Coulson’s questions, but he does answer some of them. Yes, Garrett is alive. Yes, Hand is dead. No, HYDRA doesn’t know Providence’s location - he was in too much of a hurry when he finally got the call to pass it off to them. And maybe that should’ve clued him in that he’s gone _completely insane_.

He still doesn’t know why he did it. He could’ve at least _tried_ convincing Jemma to go on the run with him. They might even have made it work - for a while.

He definitely couldn’t have taken her to Kane, so he’s glad at least that he didn’t try. The way she reacted in that hallway …

The Cage door opens and Grant screws his eyes shut. “I already told you everything I’m going to. Just- just keep Jemma in the base, okay?” He’s letting Coulson draw his own conclusions about why Jemma’s in danger from HYDRA, but he hasn’t told him anything beyond that. After he hit all the major points in the first wave of the interrogation, he just kept saying variations on “Jemma’s in danger.” Coulson got especially pissed when he started mixing languages to get the point across.

He winces when he hears weight settle on the chair across from his and flexes his hands in the cuffs. He is in no mood for this.

“You know-” Grant’s eyes snap open at the sound of Jemma’s voice, and sure enough it’s her sitting there. His breath catches in his throat. He didn’t think she’d ever come near him again, let alone walk in here and talk to him. “-I never wondered before, why you didn’t tell me.”

His gaze flies quickly over every inch of her. She’s pale and her eyes are red, she’s even got a burst blood vessel marring the edge of one iris and he wonders if she was just crying that hard or she was trying too hard to stop herself. One of her arms is wrapped across her chest, her left hand tucked under her opposite elbow - is she trying to make up for the lack of a ring there or just hiding that it’s gone? - while her other hand taps an uneven pattern on her knee. He thinks _that’s_ probably to keep him from realizing she’s shaking.

“Tell you what?” he asks, his voice coming out hoarse.

“Why you married me.”

Ah. That. He eases back in the chair until the cuffs are almost taut. “Did Coulson really let you come in here just to ask me that?” Hell, forget Coulson. There isn’t a person outside this room who’d let her anywhere near him after what he pulled. Even Koenig’s probably got enough sense to know better, and he’s only known them for a day.

“Coulson’s not-” She stops herself. “Coulson doesn’t know, all right? Now answer the question.”

He smiles. “You haven’t asked me one, Jem.”

She stiffens, her whole body tightening up. Her eyes though, they’re blazing. She’s scared and probably - definitely - heartbroken, but she’s pissed as all hell. “Was I a mission?” she asks coldly. “Did Garrett order you to go through with it so you could turn me? Is that what the last few months have been about? Finally making an effort, actually talking instead of just dropping in for a quick shag every few months? Making me fa- making me care about you?”

If she wants a fight, he can definitely give her one. The week he’s had would be plenty but that on top of the last few months? He is _itching_ for a good screaming match. Jemma doesn’t deserve that though, so he does his best to keep a lid on it.

“You don’t want me to answer that question.”

“I think I do,” she counters. “I think it’s the least you owe me. Why did you marry me?”

He takes a deep breath, and then another just to be safe. “I know what you’re feeling, okay? And you’re in no state-”

“Don’t you dare condescend to me, not after what you’ve done. And I don’t even-” There are tears in her eyes and she has to take a breath to keep her voice approaching level. “I don’t even mean to _me_. The things you’ve done to the team. To our _friends_.” She shakes her head, looking at him like she’s never seen him before in her life. “And don’t you dare tell me you understand. You have _no idea_ what I’m feeling.”

“Don’t I?” He can feel the anger getting out of control, growing with each tear that rolls down her face, but he can’t seem to care enough to stop it. He threw away _everything_ for her, and this is what he gets? “It feels like your whole world’s been upended. Like every moment of your life suddenly takes on a new meaning. Every good thing that ever happened to you is suddenly just one more piece of shit to add to the pile.” The angry twist he puts on the words has her backing down, but he doesn’t respond in kind. Oh no, he likes this, finally having his say, and he’s not letting her get away from it. “Is that what it feels like to find out your husband’s HYDRA? Because that’s pretty much what it felt like to find out my _wife_ is.”

He always loves the way her forehead wrinkles when she’s confused, but not today. He barely lets her get half of her answering _what_ out before he’s laughing.

“Yeah, that’s right. You wanna know if I married you on orders? I did. But that was it. Just _marry her_. Nothing else. Not until two days ago when your fucking _grandfather_ walks into John’s base like he owns the damn place - hell, he probably does.”

Now Jemma’s not even trying to hide her shaking. Grant’s not sure she even realizes she’s doing it. That cuts into his anger, but not enough to get him to shut up, just enough to have him backing off a little.

“John saved my life. He brought me into HYDRA and into SHIELD and I thought I was so damn lucky. Only now I find out it was all because of you, making me a man your grandfather thought was good enough.” He slouches, stretching his legs out to one side so there’s no danger of touching her. “He’s gonna be pissed as hell when he realizes I turned on him.”

“M-my grandfather?” Jemma echoes slowly. And there goes the last of the rage, washed away by the child-like stutter in her voice.

“Yeah,” he says, as gently as he can. He shrugs one shoulder. “I told you the order to bring you in came from the top.”

She wavers. She’s sitting in a fucking chair and she looks like she might fall right out of it.

“Jemma,” he says, leaning forward. Like he’d be able to catch her.

She holds out a hand to ward him off. The other goes to her mouth. She’s looking green.

All at once she jumps up and heads for the door.

“Jemma!” he calls, stopping her. “It’s just him. Your parents don’t know anything. He said- he said your mom was too much of a disappointment to bring in.”

He doesn’t know that it’ll do her any good to know - maybe it’ll hurt more, knowing her parents aren’t safe the way she is - but at least now she knows.

She grips her elbows tight, bouncing slightly at the door. When she glances up at the camera, he realizes something’s wrong.

“Who’s watching?” he asks.

“May,” she answers absently, trying the door from this side. Not easy, but she gets an A for effort.

He supposes it makes sense, May letting her in. She’s always been a face-your-problems kind of person, but it’s a surprise to hear she’s going behind Coulson’s back after the shit she’s been pulling all these months. Shouldn’t she be following orders to get back on his good side?

Jemma’s waving at the camera, her back facing more and more towards him as the seconds add up. She’s ready to be far away from him. And that stings, it does, but it’s also worrisome. May might agree that Jemma should face her traitor husband, but she wouldn’t force her to stay in here longer than she’s willing.

“Let me go.”

She turns and it’s almost a relief to have her looking at him with confusion instead of fear or hate.

“Something’s wrong,” he says. “May would’ve let you out by now. Whatever’s going on out there, I can’t help you if I’m cuffed to this table.”

She shakes her head. “Providence is secure - assuming you were telling the truth?”

“Yes. I haven’t lied-”

She laughs harshly.

“-since I stopped you from leaving. But after the last few days do you honestly believe _any_ where is secure?” That gets her thinking straight. Good, her brain is her greatest weapon and she can’t let the truth finally coming out steal it from her. “Jemma, you know I’m right. If they’ve come for you-”

“And _you_ know I wouldn’t be foolish enough to bring the key.” She turns to the camera.

He smiles at her back. Nice to see a little spine on her again. “I also know you’re more than capable of picking a pair of handcuffs.” In the stillness of the Cage, he can hear her faint gasp. “Lisbon? You surprised me on my birthday.” It was probably the best weekend of his life, and he wasn’t even in love with her yet. It seems like years ago but it was only last winter. “That was some of the most impressive lock-picking I’ve ever seen - especially since you were a little distracted-”

“ _Stop_. Just stop.” Her fists are shaking at her sides. That flush traveling up the back of her neck might not be all from lust. He swallows heavily. “Are you trying to hurt me? By reminding me that I gave myself to a traitor?”

“Jemma, I told you-”

She whirls, her expression cool, impassive. “Nothing that matters. You still chose this, Grant. You chose to join _HYDRA_. You chose to go along with John’s plans when they involved mutilating innocent people and torturing Coulson and _murdering_ Skye.”

She’s right and he really doesn’t have a defense for that. He’s not happy about some of the choices he’s had to make, but that doesn’t mean he regrets them. They saved John’s life, and Jemma would be the first to call that a good thing.

He holds his hands, palms up, as wide as the cuffs will allow. “I never would’ve married you - never would’ve been _allowed_ to marry you if I hadn’t made those choices.” It’s a simple statement of fact. He’s angry about the manipulation, yeah, but Kane was right about one thing: Grant can’t hate any deal that gets him Jemma.

Something in her expression cracks. “But you would’ve been a man I could love.”

The door opens and Jemma’s relief lasts just until she sees the man outside. Not a furious Coulson, but a stone-faced stranger in full combat gear. She falls back half a step, but the man grabs her arm and drags her into the hall.

“Hey!” Grant yells, jumping to his feet. The door closes before he can do more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma is handed off to General Talbot of all people when they disembark.

“This is who May’s throwing a fuss over?” he asks. At least that means May is still alive to throw a fuss, though considering that likely means she’s severely beating several of Talbot’s men, Jemma must wonder whether the news is so good after all.

“She was talking to a prisoner,” the steel-gripped airman at her elbow says.

“A prisoner?” Talbot asks with a smile. “Funny how May failed to mention that.” He takes her arm and the airman obligingly steps back. “Make sure he doesn’t get out. _We’ve_ got some talking to do.”

Visions of interrogation techniques are a welcome replacement for the thoughts currently taking up most of Jemma’s brain power. While images of torture leave her weak-limbed, they at least don’t make her feel sick in her bones - in her _genes_ \- and she latches onto them as Talbot drags her along to-

To Koenig’s office.

May gives her a faint nod from her seat at the table. It’s a question, _is she all right?_ Jemma nods in return. Koenig is seated at the other end of the table and between them is Maria Hill, only she’s sprung to her feet.

“What did you do to her?” Jemma’s only met Hill once, when she was interviewing for Coulson’s team, so her show of concern now is touching.

“Nothing,” Talbot grouses, shoving her into a seat. May has to put out an arm to keep her from falling right out of it, but that might be more from her emotional state than Talbot’s manhandling.

“You’d better not have,” Hill says, “because if you did, I will not be getting myself killed trying to save you from the scary Ward. Where is he, by the way? I can’t believe he’d leave you alone in the middle of this.”

Jemma closes her eyes on the use of Skye’s silly nickname. Has it circulated so far through SHIELD that even Fury’s right-hand is using it?

There’s silence following Hill’s question, and when Jemma opens her eyes it’s to find May and Koenig sharing a look. If she weren’t here, there likely wouldn’t be any cause at all to hesitate, but if she looks half as bad as she feels, they’ll be worried confirming Grant’s loyalties will push her over the edge.

Funny, since she feels like she’s been falling for hours already.

“The _scary_ Ward?” Talbot asks. “Is that who’s locked up on that plane?”

That gets Hill added to the shared look mix.

“Yes,” Jemma says. “Some months ago he was exposed to an alien artifact that decreased his emotional control, specifically in regards to feelings of anger. The last few days have caused a relapse.”

She’s not sure why she lies. Shouldn’t she want him locked up, taken away in chains to some dark cell where she’ll never have to look at him again? Oh yes, she should and she _does_. Just the thought of him being so close has her stomach roiling, but somehow turning him over to the military feels wrong. He is a criminal from _SHIELD_ , first and foremost.

Or perhaps she lies because of what he said about her family. Maybe she’s only protecting her own skin.

She has no idea which is worse, so she chooses not to dwell. Instead she proudly takes note that she lies much more convincingly when she’s too emotionally drained to care.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Hill sighs. “Is that all of them?” She doesn’t ask Talbot. She asks May.

“On the base, yes.”

“Good.”

And then the fighting starts.

 


	21. ragtag

Jemma isn’t Grant. No matter how hard he’s tried the last few months, her spacial awareness is still horrible. But there’s really no excuse for her not realizing May’s entered the lounge until the woman is sitting directly in front of her.

“Hey.” May’s knees brush hers and she doesn’t seem to care at all that she’s breaking the no-sitting-on-the-coffee-table rule. Jemma supposes they’re beyond silly things like that now. Her eyes dart towards the Cage.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been since she last looked away, but she forces herself to do so again now. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” May says, sounding the kindest Jemma’s ever heard her. “Maria’s on the stick. She’s taking us to one of Stark’s hangars. Anyone sees us, she’ll claim the plane is salvage.”

That’s good at least, that they have somewhere to land. “The others?”

“Meeting us there.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I need you to tell me what he said to you.”

Jemma swallows reflexively. She feels empty, spent, and has been gratefully numb ever since Talbot dragged her into Koenig’s office, but the sharp point of pain returns as she remembers Grant’s words.

She’s glad, suddenly, that Hill is flying them to safety and that Koenig has offered to finish moving boxes into storage. She doesn’t want either of them hearing this, doesn’t even want _May_ hearing this, but she, at least, is family. That doesn’t, however, mean she can look at May while she says it. Her eyes settle somewhere over May’s right shoulder on a seemingly unimportant stretch of wall.

Grant once kissed her up against it.

“He said my grandfather is HYDRA and intends on bringing me in, that he married me under orders. He said- he said he was brought into HYDRA because of the betrothal.” She’s crying again. Lovely. “And he didn’t even know. Not any of it, not until two days ago.”

She looks down, unable to face whatever May must think of her now she knows she didn’t just marry a monster, she is one. 

“But he knew he was HYDRA,” May says slowly. “He knew he was working with Garrett, aiding the man who kidnapped Coulson, shot Skye, tortured Peterson. He knew all of that.”

Yes. Yes, he did, and each gently laid out accusation is another barb in Jemma’s heart.

May tips Jemma’s chin up, forcing her to look her in the eye. “Even if Grant is telling the truth, he still knew exactly what he was doing. One ignorant crime doesn’t forgive all the rest of them.” Her mouth thins in a way that is somehow more encouraging than frightening. “And you are _not_ your husband or your grandfather. Whatever they’ve done, it doesn’t make you guilty. Understand?”

Jemma nods. She understands, but whether she believes, only time will tell.

“Good. We’ll be there soon. If you wanna shower before the fighting for priority starts…”

Jemma can’t help a smile at that. Even after months of living together, they haven’t figured out a way to prioritize who most deserves post-mission shower time. Not that their flight from the military can in any way be compared to a mission taking down a powered individual - escaping Providence was quite easy, actually, once Talbot and his guards were incapacitated - which leads Jemma to think the advice is more for personal benefit than anything. May is reminding her that she won’t want to face the others looking like … well, like whatever one appears to be hours after learning one’s husband is a traitor.

“May?” Jemma says before either of them can move. She really should clean herself up, but she has to know. “What happened? Between you and Coulson?”

May lets out a long sigh and resettles herself on the table. “I’ve been spying on him. Under Fury’s orders. The GH-325 has the potential for side-effects - I don’t know what kind,” she adds quickly, holding up a hand to stem any of the questions on the tip of Jemma’s tongue. “I only know that Fury wanted someone here to monitor Coulson.”

“You were lying to him,” Jemma says. She doesn’t mean it cruelly and is sorry when she sees May wince. “But he’s forgiven you?”

May is smart enough to see where this is going. “It doesn’t compare. You have to see that.”

“I do,” Jemma says softly.

“What I did and what Grant did, they’re not even on the same continent.” May keeps staring for several long seconds before standing. “Better hurry.”

Jemma waits until she’s gone to even try standing. She has no idea how long she’s been sitting and her legs are pins and needles when she tries to move. It _hurts_ , but it’s good. Physical pain will pass. It, at least, is something she can deal with. She takes her time going through the lounge, but once she reaches the Cage, she speeds up considerably, knowing if she pauses for even a step she’ll end up standing outside the door until someone passes by.

The shower is just what she needs. She scrubs her skin until it feels as raw as her insides. Physically at least she feels new and refreshed with the dried tears finally washed away.

On reflex she wipes the mirror clean when she comes out of the small cubicle, and instantly regrets it. She hasn’t had time, since Grant’s initial confession, to look at her reflection, and perhaps before it wouldn’t have bothered her. She might have been able to reason with herself that while she let a traitor into her bed and heart, she did not do so willingly. But now things have changed yet again. And how sad is it that Jemma believed so readily? That she didn’t for one moment question Grant’s assertions regarding her grandfather?

She would like very much to claim it was Grant’s betrayal that cleared the way for that belief, but it wasn’t. She’s always known what sort of man her grandfather is. She just never allowed herself to see it because he’s family.

She wishes she could say the same of Grant. It’s been hours, but there isn’t a single memory of their lives together that she can look on and say, "this is the moment I should have known."

She looks away from her own face to her hands resting on the edge of the sink. Her wedding ring shimmers in the fog left by her shower. She always thought it meant something that Grant insisted on a new band instead of the heirloom. Something ugly and bitter crawls up her throat. The ring she loved so much was just another manipulation.

“Jemma?” May calls gently around a knock on the door. “We’re about to land. The others are already waiting for us.” The way she says it, Jemma thinks May might understand just how much of a burden the others’ hugs and comfort will be to her at this stage.

“Thank you. I’ll be right out.”

With so few people on the Bus, she takes the risk of darting to her bunk dressed only in a towel. She’d rather dress in new clothes than the old.

She feels the gentle rock of the landing, but doesn’t move to join the rest of them, not yet. She’s dressed in clothes from the back of her drawers, ones that have fallen out of her favor and that have the fewest memories of Grant attached to them, but her ring is still on her finger.

Her talk with Skye - only  _days_ ago and in this very room - comes back to her. She and Grant are no longer married because they no longer exist, technically. That should make this easier. It doesn’t.

It feels like she’s pulling off her own skin, leaving raw tendons and bone exposed. It feels like giving up.

She drops the ring to her blanket and leaves it there, unable to look at it again to put it someplace safe. 

Everyone is already gathered at the bottom of the cargo ramp, exchanging stories of the last few hours. They notice her instantly and she steals herself for the sympathy she can already see in their eyes.

She needn’t have bothered. An explosion cuts the reunions short.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s hours from the time Jemma is dragged out of the Cage to the moment Coulson opens the door. Grant actually sighs in relief when he sees him. If Coulson’s here, on the Bus, then everything’s gotta be okay, right?

“Where’s Jemma?” Grant asks.

“We were hoping you could tell us.” So much for things being okay.

Grant tightens his hands into fists, using the pain to anchor himself. He’s still cuffed to the table - no point breaking his own wrist for freedom when he’s still trapped in here - but the cuffs are bloody now and his skin is raw and swollen.

“You want to protect Garrett,” Coulson says, “I get that, but you also wanted to protect Jemma from him.”

So word of what he told Jemma hasn’t spread. Grant’s not sure what to make of that - what he _wants_ to make of that.

“Well, he’s got her. Deathlock attacked us ninety minutes ago, knocked Jemma out, and carried her off.”

Grant’s pulse beats loudly in his ears, building and building as Kane’s possessive words echo in his mind. He almost misses the faint tapping of a key against the table.

Coulson is regarding him calmly, waiting for him to snap out of it. “You say you gave yourself up to protect Jemma from HYDRA, but you wouldn’t give us anything that might put Garrett in danger.” He sets the key down, slides it forward just far enough that Grant could almost reach it if he tried. “Now’s the time to decide where your loyalties really lie.”

 


	22. beginning of the end

Jemma doesn’t bother paying attention to the discussion going on around her. They’re talking about the uprising, which mostly amounts to John laughing over SHIELD’s downfall. Grandfather is less amused, but chuckles from time to time. She can feel him watching her, can even see his sharp gaze reflected in the window that has her focus. The facility has a lovely view - trees and hills, even white, puffy clouds overhead because weather doesn’t care about the evil that permeates this place.

Grandfather has been watching almost since she arrived. He was so _happy_ to see her. “Finally,” he said, like he’s been waiting for this. Which, she realized, he has. All her life he’s been planning on bringing her into - her eyes drift to the corner where Peterson stands guard - into all of _this_. When he paid for her schooling, it was so that she could one day use those skills to further HYDRA’s goals. When he arranged her marriage, it was with plans to turn her intended into a loyal agent of HYDRA.

He’s disappointed to see her without the ring. That’s what started his piercing looks. And she’s clever enough to see that the increased guard detail they picked up on her tour of the facility - a detail which has not thinned out one bit since the tour’s end - is due to her. She’s being kept as much as she’s being protected.

Ian Quinn lets out a bark of laughter as John pulls a face in his imagining of Nick Fury’s face when the infamous Winter Soldier killed him. Jemma doesn’t bother hiding her own sour expression. The insulting topic is precisely what she expected while being brought here, but _Quinn_? She’s been heartbroken for what feels like days, and Quinn’s presence has cut through that as finely as a scalpel. She’s angry, _furious_. And she’s going to escape.

She’s using the afternoon tea - a deference to Grandfather more than her, she’s certain - to tinker with plans. There are any number of ways out of this facility that she saw on her tour, all of which will be easily accessible once she gets to work. John seems certain she’ll be working here - “it’s the first place Grant’ll come,” he said - and she’s willing to go along. She’s spent months studying Centipede and CyberTek both. She knows them. She doesn’t know what Grandfather might have waiting for her back home.

So she’ll escape from here, just as soon as she figures out a way to safely immobilize Peterson. He’s as unwilling a participant in this as she is, and was even kind to her on the flight despite knowing her connections to the people who have enslaved him. She won’t be able to escape so long as he’s capable of stopping her, but she owes it to him not to hurt him more than he already has been.

The conversation goes quiet and Jemma has the sinking sensation she’s been called on to speak. Grandfather is still fixing her with that measuring stare. Quinn looks bored. John - is smiling. Which isn’t odd, precisely, but it doesn’t seem to fit quite right with the circumstances.

“About time,” he says.

Before she can puzzle out what that ominous statement means, a warm hand settles on her shoulder. She looks up to find Grant smiling down at her.

The last time they spoke, just standing in the same room as him was enough to drive her to tears, but now, surrounded and in the lion’s den, her first instinct is relief. Grant will save her.

He sees her think it, she can tell by the brightening of his own smile. Which means he must see the moment she realizes how wrong that is. Grant _won’t_ save her. He’s one of the lions, and if he’s here, it’s anything but good.

His kisses her, bending down too quickly for her to even think of pulling away, and then there’s no chance of her doing so. She’s spent days being frightened and tired, and even if Grant is the cause of much of that - the cause of the _worst_ of that - he’s still a comfort. They’ve always been very physically compatible and it’s much easier, after days of struggling to simply put one foot in front of the other, to let that complimentary relationship buoy her than to fight against it.

The kiss itself is enough to break her heart all over again, likely would be even if she had no context for it. He’s so gentle, holding the contact but never deepening it to the point of embarrassment. One of his hands cups her cheek, the fingers curling oddly in her hair, while the other slips down her side to check, she thinks, for injuries. He’s worried about her and is using the kiss to reassure himself she’s unharmed.

When he finally breaks it, he’s squatting more or less on her level, using the arm of her chair to keep himself from falling.

Softly, she hears John say, “And you wanted to scrap the deal. Pfft.”

Grant doesn’t let her think about that though, he pulls his hand away from her face and something sparkles at the corner of her eye. Her ring.

“Forget something?” he asks with a smile.

She doesn’t really have an answer for that. She’s been asked, of course, but John was always quick to defend her when she was obviously uncomfortable. He’s currying her favor, trying to prove he’s still the warmhearted man she thought she knew so that her good opinion will somehow carry over to her grandfather. She hates being grateful to him.

Grant laughs as he slips the ring back on her finger. The sound should be sickening, but all she can think is that he’s never done this. Not with this ring. He sent it to her lab at the Sandbox for her to put on herself. It was so _impersonal_ , but she still can’t remember ever having taken it off in all the years since. And now she’ll have to do it again.

He folds her hand in his and kisses her knuckles. “I know. There’s nothing to forgive, okay?”

“Isn’t there?” Grandfather asks, sounding almost indifferent. “Aren’t the sorts of tiffs that end in removed rings usually the ones most requiring of forgiveness?”

Grant sits on the arm of her chair, making himself almost comically taller than her, but having him leaning across the back of it is still somehow comforting.

“She didn’t tell you?” he asks.

“Not a thing.”

She can feel his eyes on her and looks up to meet them. He’s still smiling. “I wasn’t quite sure how to explain. It’s been a hectic few days.”

Grant barks out a laugh. “You could say that.” 

It’s terrifying what he does next. He tells the truth about Providence, but at the same time he manages to imply it all went _very_ differently. His confession, that terrible, ugly thing, is mentioned only in the vaguest of terms with, “and I told Jemma I didn’t think she was safe with the team, tried to get her around to realizing we were the only ones we could trust.” And then somehow it sounds as though the lie detector is what did him in, that Koenig let him go only so that he could inform Coulson of his duplicity.

If Jemma had told them anything, there’s nothing in Grant’s story that would be called into question, he would only be asked to defend whatever actions she might have exposed. And that, Jemma is sure, he would have managed just as easily as he has all of this.

She’s openly staring at him by the end, and he’s got her hand in his while he addresses the others. He keeps touching the ring, almost as though reassuring himself that it’s still there, that she’s still his.

“So there was no ring throwing?” Quinn asks, looking bored again now there’s no hope of a marital upset.

“No!” Grant says quickly, only to look down the next second. “Was there?”

She shakes her head.

“Then how did you get it?” Grandfather asks.

“Oh, that.” Grant rolls his eyes. “Coulson had it, I think he was trying to rub it in how much being HYDRA would lose me.” He squeezes her hand and bends to plant a kiss at the crown of her head. “He had no idea.” The smile he wears fades a little. “Did he make you give it to him?”

“No,” she says, somewhat shakily. “I- I took it off on my own.”

The corner of Grant’s mouth tightens, but the smile doesn’t fall any further. “That’s the genius I know and love. Best way to avoid suspicion, give the man what he wants.”

He’s lying, she realizes, because he needs her. If what he said earlier about being in HYDRA solely because of their relationship, there’s little chance he’ll be treated well if their marriage falls apart from this. So he’s covering for the both of them to keep his own seat. It benefits her as much as him - she can’t very well escape if they know she’s the one who had him locked up at Providence - but she still finds herself unable to keep quiet.

“The others?” she asks. “How did you escape?”

There’s something - indecision, perhaps - in his eyes and then he’s smiling warmly. “That’s the best part! Coulson let me out. Thought he could convince me to help him track you down.” He turns to the rest of them. “Reminded me of Mexico City, actually.”

“What happened there?” Quinn asks.

John has gone very still. “Guy betrayed HYDRA. Thought he could get away with it. Grant took him out.”

“Aguilar was good,” Grant says, his hand tightening around Jemma’s. “You always said no one else could’ve taken him down.”

“Then it’s a good thing you were there,” Quinn says. “Are we gonna do any business here or should I-”

And the alarms blare.

“Finally,” Grant sighs.

“You have a tracker,” Grandfather says while gesturing for several guards to move in.

Grant slips off the arm of the chair, keeping a hand extended back towards Jemma to hold her in place. “John, you’d better go.”

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” John snarls.

“What you said,” Grant says in a tone Jemma’s never heard him use in John’s presence before. “Now go. Coulson’s gunning for you and he’ll be headed straight here.”

John curses, but follows when Quinn scurries out past the advancing guards. Peterson falls into line right behind them.

One of the guards lunges, thinking to take Grant unawares, but he catches him by the neck and uses his body to knock others off-balance. Jemma curls back in her seat and watches the unfolding violence. She’s seen plenty of it over the last few months and yet somehow has never seen anything quite like this. There’s control, yes, but no holding back on Grant’s part. He’s been left unbridled by the exposure of his true loyalties and fights with almost the same ferocity he did while under the berserker staff’s influence.

She moves only once, when a guard falls in front of her. While the man is still trying to pick himself back up, Jemma removes the handgun from his belt and knocks him over the head with it. She hears a crack of laughter from the tussle and looks up to find Grant smiling at her through bloody teeth. (She’s not overly worried; the cut on his cheek has reopened - again - and the blood is likely from there.) He knocks one guard back, kicks another. It’s almost sad how easily one man has taken out all the extra guards Grandfather ordered for her. Grant climbs gingerly to his feet, showing his hurts now that it’s over.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I was serious about-”

The gunshot is loud - too loud, really. Jemma’s been working on guns for years and is well used to the noise, but this? It deafens her to everything else and all she has is her vision and the sight of red bursting from Grant’s side. His face goes white and when he hits his knees she has the silly thought that he’ll get back up, he’s only tripped. But he sways, as she knew he would, and his shoulder hits the floor.

Jemma catches him before he can fall onto his stomach. She pulls up his shirt to assess the damage - _why isn’t he wearing a vest?_ \- and there’s already so much blood.

“Disappointing,” Grandfather sighs. His elbow rests on the arm of the chair, pointing the gun up in a way that is almost casual, as though he shoots men in the back every day. He just might. “It’s my own fault. I take full responsibility, my Jem. I knew I should have scrapped the whole idea when the other boy died - and then when this one got himself arrested, I really should have taken it as a sign - but I allowed myself to be swayed by hopes. He lived up to them for a while.” He shrugs. “We’ll find you someone better next time.”

Jemma stares. She doesn’t know this man. He’s her flesh and blood, but he’s a stranger, a monster, a murderer. He’s like Quinn, using his power to hurt others.

She can feel Grant’s heartbeat under her hands, the blood flowing out faster than she can stem it. It’s so much like last time, but there’s no Guest House anymore. If she loses Grant, it will be forever.

“Jemma,” Grandfather says as she moves Grant into a better position to stop the blood flow. She hates to release any of the pressure, but she needs something better to stem the tide and her shirt will be faster to remove than his. She lets go for the briefest moment and that’s when Grandfather’s shadow falls over them. The heel of his polished shoe presses against her chest, forcing her back onto her heels. “ _Jemma_ ,” he says again. “I do not think I need to remind you of your duty to this family.”

She falls heavily against the side of her abandoned chair. He said something similar on her wedding day, and it was family obligation that he used to manipulate her into agreeing to the marriage at all. It was a strong enough bond that she was willing to give up a great deal for it - and she still is.

“Grant,” she says with as much strength as she can muster, “is my family, as you so carefully ensured. You … you’re a stranger.”

His expression never changes from that cool fury, so calm as to be terrifying, but his hand tightens around the barrel of the gun he still holds. She should have kept hers, she thinks, but shoulds won’t do her much good now.

She flinches back as he brings the gun up, not to fire on her - he still needs her for his bloody legacy, doesn’t he - but to strike her across the face. The blow, gratefully, never lands. There’s another gunshot, and her grandfather crumples like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Behind him, Grant’s arm falls to the floor like a felled tree.

“Nobody raises their hand to my wife.” He says it mostly into the carpet and it slurs horribly.

She scrambles to him, tearing her shirt away and resuming the pressure on his wound. “Stay awake,” she orders.

“Team’s coming,” he says through a wince.

“Yes.” The alarm’s cut off, but she can hear distant sounds of chaos and destruction. Just the sort of thing the team would bring along. “I imagine they’re causing John no end of trouble.”

“I tried to get him out.” He sounds so sorry - not for doing it, but that he might have failed.

“I know,” she says softly. “I’m sure he’s safe. John’s a tough old bastard.”

He smiles a little at that. “Team’s coming.” Her breath catches in her throat, but she forces herself to agree again. His hand finds hers and he feels for the ring. “’S a tracker. I never wanted you to know.”

Of course it is. She’s not even a little surprised.

He drags in a breath that shakes his whole body so badly she has to put her weight on him to keep him steady.

“Jemma,” he says, and waits until she’s looking at him to continue. “Lie to me.”

“You’re going to die,” she says immediately.

He laughs and she almost regrets her words because it hurts him. “No. I mean … are we?”

Tears sting in her eyes. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how they can _ever_ be okay after all he’s done. The truth is they never really were and she’s not sure she can forgive him for that, for spoiling one of the best things in her world.

But he did ask her to lie.

“We are,” she says in a voice that doesn’t sound like hers. Grant doesn’t seem to mind. “We’re okay.”

He smiles, breathing a little easier now. His hand never leaves hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over!


	23. epilogue

“Ma’am?” Camarena asks cautiously.

There’s a faint twinge of wrongness in Jemma’s brain at the word. Not that she’s unused to being called ma’am or that she even minds it - it’s respectful and a necessary part of the SHIELD power structure - but lately the only ones who don’t call her that or even sir are the rest of the team, and she can go entire days without seeing a single one of them. She misses the sound of her own name.

“Yes?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the set of figures giving her so much trouble.

“The daily reports.” Camarena slides the folder along the edge of the desk until it just nudges Jemma’s elbow. The impact startles her out of her stupor and she looks from the folder to the rest of the lab - the _empty_ lab.

When did the day end?

When did they even have _lunch_?

“Is there anything else?” Camarena asks. She’s looking a bit restless and Jemma wonders if her people are going to slip out of the Playground for drinks.

“No. Go on ahead.”

Camarena practically races from the room and Jemma is left to wonder if, were things different, she would have been invited along. She’s not exactly talkative these days - not even around Fitz on those rare occasions he isn’t in the field - and she _is_ their superior. Head of SHIELD Science. It’s a position she secretly dreamed of once or twice, but not one she ever expected to reach before she hit forty. It separates her from the rest of the scientists to be sure, but enough that they wouldn’t invite her along?

She’ll never know. She hasn’t even been outside since sixteen days ago when May snuck her out at midnight under pretense of finding one of SHIELD’s rogue satellites. Fitz could have done it - faster and safely from inside the walls of the Playground - but no one brought the flimsy excuse into question.

Before that, it was twenty-three days locked down. And before that…

Jemma closes her eyes on the thought. The confinement is for her own protection. Grandfather may be dead, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe. There’s no telling who within HYDRA might want to use her or what contingency plans he might have set in place before the uprising, and then there’s the issue of enemies to deal with. Not only those within HYDRA, either. Her personal connection to one of HYDRA’s former leaders is not widely circulated among the Playground’s occupants. As far as her fellow scientists know, her movements are limited due to a threat made on her life.

She’s not alone though, and finds herself reaching for her tablet almost without thought. She may only have left the Playground a handful of times since first arriving, but there’s one person who’s been confined here just as long without a single breath of freedom.

Her heart leaps into her throat at the sight of him on the screen. He’s in the middle of an interview with Coulson. She hopes it’s not in regards to whatever mission the others are on - having to gather further intel midway through would mean trouble. But he doesn’t look concerned. He’s serious, definitely, but relaxed. He leans forward in his chair, hands together between his knees. His expression is intent the way it gets whenever he talks about his work.

While she watches, he leans back in a posture that seems to say _that’s all there is_. If he were anyone else, Coulson might continue things - and he does, for a moment or two - but from what she’s told, Grant has given them no trouble and has proven to be a reliable source of information.

His easy expression stiffens only once, when Coulson makes to leave. Jemma can just catch the smile Coulson throws over his shoulder, but not what he says. Whatever it is, Grant relaxes to hear it and nods, looking a little resigned.

Jemma’s stomach clenches. She knows, even without proof, that Grant asked after her. His only condition for handing over information is that she remain safely secured within the Playground - which Coulson would have done regardless, so it makes no difference - and Coulson says he asks about her at the end of every interview. No matter what the topic or circumstances, he wants to end each of his rare moments of human contact with reassurance that she’s all right.

Even when Fitz or Skye or Trip go down - which they’re not supposed to - he asks.

No one tells her she should go down, but she can feel them thinking it, see it in glances thrown her way. _He gave up his freedom for you_ , they say. _All he wants is to protect you_. Even May thinks she should see him, but only if it will help her regain peace of mind.

Jemma doesn’t know that it will. He saved her, he exposed himself for her, but he was HYDRA. For more than a decade he was a member of an organization that sows death and destruction wherever it goes, whose ideals are some of the most twisted in all human history. The man whose ring she wore for four years was an upstanding SHIELD agent, as far from HYDRA as it’s possible to get - or so she thought.

On the screen, Grant furiously runs his nails over his scalp. (He cut the hair short last week. It was impulsive, done while Trip was supervising his daily shave. Jemma happened to be watching at the time, just as she is now, and swears she can still hear her cry of shock echoing off the walls.) All at once he stands, his movements becoming more purposeful, directed, and returns the chair to his desk.

It’s early for his evening workout, but whatever is on his mind is heavy enough that he needs it.

She tosses the tablet across the table as sympathy curls around her heart. It’s not the first time she’s felt it since Grant was locked away downstairs. Far from it. But it’s been growing more persistent lately and she can’t help but wonder if it’s because she’s truly forgiving him - and how _could_ she after the lies and, worse, the standing aside while evil was done to their friends - or if she’s developing some strange sort of Stockholm syndrome, sympathizing with her fellow prisoner.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant hasn’t seen his wife in ninety-seven days. He thinks. It might be ninety-six, but he can’t be sure if that was really her standing over his hospital bed or a very blurry nurse. He was pretty out of it from the drugs.

It’s not even close to the longest stretch they’ve been apart - and isn’t that a laugh? There was a time when he barely saw Jemma except for a few hours or maybe days between missions - and they didn’t exactly spend that time catching up - and now he’s getting itchy from a few short months without her.

Maybe it’s the isolation. Maybe it’s that he let himself get used to her. Maybe all John and Kane’s manipulations really worked.

It doesn’t matter. Grant’s spent his entire adult life being squeezed into the box HYDRA planned for him, and whatever his reasons for loving Jemma, he does. He wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to her.

That doesn’t mean he has no regrets. Ninety-seven (maybe -six) of them plus the scar on his stomach. It still pulls sometimes - like now, when he’s doing curl-ups - and every time he wonders how things would’ve gone if he’d avoided it. If he’d had his head on straight, he’d have found a way to protect Jemma and keep John safe. But he was left reeling by Kane’s revelation and couldn’t get his feet back under him. And now …

Now he’s left waiting down here, hoping every time the door opens that it’ll be Jemma come to see him. It never is.

The others have mostly forgiven him, he thinks. There are still hard feelings - he can see it in the way Fitz sometimes looks away suddenly or Skye presses a hand to her stomach - but they’re actively working to treat him like one of the team. There are days it feels more like he’s under quarantine than being held prisoner for his crimes. Last week Trip, Skye, and Fitz came down all together and forced him be their forth for poker; they’re always doing little things like that. May’s even come once or twice in Coulson’s place.

But still no Jemma.

Which is why he doesn’t bother looking up the way he usually does when the heavy door opens. He’s already gotten his hopes up once today, he’s not doing it again.

“I told you everything I know about the-” and he still can’t say it without rolling his eyes- “Octosphere’s defenses.”

“Oh, is that where the others have gone?”

Grant is up and on his feet so fast that he nearly falls right back down again. Jemma’s standing on the other side of the barrier. _Jemma. Here._

She doesn’t seem too eager to get this over with, so he let’s himself drink her in. She’s thinner and paler than he remembers. The former he’s unhappy about, but the latter is proof that she really is being kept out of sight, so he can’t complain too much. Her hair’s different too, and he wonders who did it for her or if she cut it herself in a fit of annoyance.

Her left arm’s slung tight across her chest, and hiding her fingers behind her elbow. Something inside his chest clenches. It’s familiar, though less painful than last time. Then, it was accompanied by his stomach dropping out as he realized he couldn’t find her if she wasn’t wearing the ring. Now, there’s only his own pride stinging.

Not that he’d be surprised if she isn’t wearing it, but it’s the not knowing that makes his feet itch to cross the barrier line and find out for himself.

She takes a breath so deep it lifts her shoulders, and forces herself to look him in the eye. “Hello.”

A small, silent laugh jumps up from his chest and pulls his lips into a smile. “Hi.”

She steps closer, up to the table Coulson sits at whenever he comes down. Her fingers tap at the grey top, inches from the tablet controlling his half of the room.

“How are you?” he asks when she doesn’t seem to know how to begin.

She smiles, but there’s none of her usual joy in it. “Bored, honestly. Lonely,” she adds, looking down at the black face of the tablet.

“I hear that’s going around.”

Her smile grows a little more genuine, only to fall a second later. “I don’t know how to do this.”

She sounds so sad, and it kills him because _he did that_. Oh, Kane did all the heavy lifting, but Grant let it happen. While he was promising before God and man to love and honor her, promising himself that he’d at least keep her safe as much as he was able, he was also planning on lying to her every day of their lives.

“You just talk, Jemma,” he says softly, and her eyes go wide for some reason he can't fathom. “That’s all. You’re good at that.”

She lets out a wet sounding breath and nods, more to herself than him. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

“I know.” Why else would she be keeping away unless she hadn’t? But she’s here and that was an _if_ , so he holds onto hope even though that clenching in his chest is becoming a twist, tearing at his organs.

“But I don’t think I’ll ever know unless I try. So …” She taps at the tablet, bringing it back to life.

The barrier shimmers and directly in front of him a square hole opens up. He gets his food passed to him this way, along with toiletries and new books, but usually the barrier’s opened at ground level.

Jemma steps up to the hole. “I was hoping we could start over,” she says through the yellow shimmer. She lifts her right hand, allowing her left to finally fall to her side. Even with the disturbance in the barrier, he can see the ring.

The clenching eases and he smiles. “Grant Ward,” he says, shaking her hand.

“Jemma- Ward.” She smiles a little self-consciously and her hand tightens around his.

The ache left behind in his chest is swiftly being chased away by warmth he thought he’d never feel again. They’re gonna be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you so so so much to everyone who commented and kudos'd and sent me messages on tumblr - I cherish every single one. <3


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